


Casting About in the Dark

by medusine



Series: Mending Bridges [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom!Flint, Bullying, Flint/Thomas breakup, Frottage, Illegitimacy, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Post-Canon, Referenced cannibalism, character death mentioned in passing, elements of Treasure Island, past Flint/Miranda/Thomas, red hair prejudice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:45:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medusine/pseuds/medusine
Summary: Years after Nassau, the comfort has grown stale. Silver pays a visit to a once friend; he is neither welcomed nor turned away.





	1. Chapter 1

It was an inn. Nothing grand about it, but a far cry from the seediest places Silver had seen in his travels, or even in Bristol for that matter. The walls were whitewashed, a fire crackled merrily, and the smell of food was homely and inviting. A few people were eating, some drank quietly at the bar, and a group of fishermen were playing cards.

All of these things faded into a mist when Silver's eyes focused on the man who sat alone at the back of the inn, bent over his cup. It was Flint, sure enough. His copper mane and beard were unmistakeable, as was the vicious eye that fixed on Silver as he approached.

Silence filled the space between them as Silver stopped in his tracks, watching Flint pick up his cup and take a long swig.

“The fuck're you doing here?”

The slurred, contemptuous words rumbled out of Flint like the growl of some wild beast. All of Silver's instincts told him that it wasn't too late to run.

“Well, I was in the area and I thought to myself 'what does Cornwall actually look like?'. So here I am.” He managed a weak smile as he ventured closer. Flint glared at him, but didn't move a muscle.

“Try again,” Flint rasped, proving that even drunk, he could still muster the kind of authority that had fascinated and terrified the Walrus' crew.

If this had been the early days, back in Nassau, Silver would have given Flint his brightest grin, and made more jokes, and talked and talked until he got a reaction, any reaction, from his once Captain. He couldn't find it in him to do that now.

“I heard you might be here,” he said, pulling up a stool and sitting down opposite Flint.

Flint shifted on his seat, drawing himself up a little. His eyes, red-rimmed and somewhat bloodshot, were as sharp as ever as they stared Silver down. The moment drew out, nearly painful in its silence.

“Should've known you'd be spying on me.”

“Yes, you should.” As if Silver was going to let Flint go anywhere without someone to keep track of him. As if he'd ever truly be able to let Flint out of his sight.

All he got in response was a disgusted grunt. Flint emptied the rest of his cup and slammed it back down on the table. Silver's eyes lingered on it, then back up to take in the image of Flint, drunk, unkempt and, judging by the hollowness of his cheeks, underfed. A roar built in Silver's throat, an angry, frustrated cry that he could only barely swallow back down.

This wasn't what he'd wanted.

Silver hadn't had time to find out nearly enough about that plantation as he should have. He soon heard about the living conditions. He soon heard about the other inmates. He was soon pressured into paying more for the keeper to turn a blind eye to Flint and Hamilton's “unnatural” relationship, lest they be separated.

He'd helped Flint along the way, from a safe distance. He'd made sure Flint and Thomas were safe both in their prison and once they escaped. All of that to find Flint drunk and alone in a tavern in bloody Padstow, of all places.

This wasn't what he'd planned.

It was his own fault though, Silver told himself. He'd naively thought Flint could be harnessed and forced to accept an ending which, even if it wasn't ideal, at least would have kept him safe and – possibly – happy. Silver had overlooked the fact that harnessing Flint was as futile as trying to control the weather.

“McGraw,” the innkeeper called out. “You've had enough, time to get yourself home. And take your friend with you, unless he's planning on ordering something.”

Flint rolled his eyes. For another brief brief moment Silver was carried back to Nassau, to his impatient Captain. He was long used to being haunted by memories of Nassau, but having Flint before him made them all the more vivid.

Slowly, Flint shifted until he was able to stand, his arms trembling with the effort as he supported himself on the little table. Silver ignored the wrenching in his stomach elicited by that sorry sight, and pulled himself up too. He rose faster and much more gracefully than Flint, despite his crutch and missing limb.

“What d'you think you're doing?” Flint demanded, glaring at him balefully.

“Well I wasn't planning on ordering something, and you heard what the innkeeper said.” Silver said, managing to keep his tone light and plastering on a charming smile.

Flint watched him in silence for a moment, before lumbering towards the exit. Silver followed; nothing Flint could say or do – barring physical violence, perhaps – would prevent him from following.

After a silent and in Flint's case unsteady walk through Padstow they got to a row of fishermen's cottages, built in stone in a narrow street leading down to the port. Flint stopped in front of one of the houses and sought for a key all the while leaning against the wall. Getting it into the keyhole took Flint a while, and Silver's mouth twisted as he watched. What a fucking waste of Flint's once steady hands.

Once the door opened, Silver rushed after Flint, who suddenly moved faster than he'd expected. The door nearly closed in Silver's face, but he'd learned how to use his crutch to his advantage in these situations. He pushed his way in under Flint's stony glare, only offering him a thin smile in return.

The place was all right for a fisherman's cottage. It was certainly much better than Silver had expected, considering Flint's current state. A fireplace glowed with still-warm embers, although the air indoors was fairly damp and chilly. The stone walls were freshly whitewashed, in stark contrast with the dark wooden ceiling and beams above. The stone floor was made of dark, rather irregular slate. The house was tidy, with little furniture to speak of; a simple wooden table and benches, an armchair near the fire, and a few cupboards. Silver noticed stairs leading to a floor above.

“There's no getting rid of you, is there?” Flint was clumsily poking at the embers to rekindle the fire.

“Afraid not.”

Flint turned to him, glaring him down, but also – although he was obviously quite drunk – _looking_ at him rather than just glaring angrily. Silver recognised that analytical gaze; it still made him want to wriggle away the moment it landed on him.

“Still can't tell if you're real or not,” Flint growled after a while. “But one thing's for sure… I'm not telling you where that treasure is.”

The remark hit Silver harder than he was willing to admit, so he flashed Flint his best grin. “Not tonight, anyway.”

Flint raised an eyebrow at him, his eyes just as contemptuous as they'd been when they'd first met. “Over my dead body.”

“Oh, that's a long time yet. We could be friends again by then.”

Flint's eyes widened, and Silver felt himself breathe again. Flint remembered. Even with a skinful of liquor in him, he remembered that conversation of days long past. And, for just a few seconds, he looked like he'd forgotten to be angry.

It wasn't long before the scowl took over Flint's face again. He gave a great huff, slammed the poker down, lit a candle, and stomped upstairs. Silver tried to follow, but balked at the staircase; it was made up of steep, irregular stones.

“Can I spend the night?” he called after Flint, though he fully intended to regardless of the answer.

“Why d'you ask?” Flint muttered from above. “You'll do it whether I like it or not.”

The answer sent a little shiver down Silver's spine; Flint still knew Silver terribly well.

He shook himself, and picked his way through the house, considering his options. Everything was wood. Hard wood. There was a bench by the fire and an oaken armchair with a very flat and worn-out cushion. After a moment's thought, Silver shifted the armchair so that it lined up with the bench and pulled off his coat and boot. He'd slept on worse.

After some fumbling Silver found a tolerable position, close enough to the fireplace to keep the chill out of his bones but not so close that he risked being set alight by a bursting ember. He pulled his coat over himself, reclining in the chair, his good leg propped up on the bench.

Silver sat there through the night, his dozing spells interrupted every time he shivered himself awake. His mind kept returning to that moment where Flint had lowered his guard, where confusion and recognition had briefly washed over his face, where his eyes had been puzzled rather than furious. It wasn't much, but it was more than Silver had ever hoped for.

* * *

Familiar smells and sounds awoke Flint the next morning, though he knew they were impossible. Porridge was bubbling on the fire, its aroma filling the whole house. His grandfather was puttering around the kitchen, stirring the pot now and then, his cane dragging on the slate tiles.

Flint groaned and shifted in his bed, covering his face from the dim sunlight that came in through the little window. He could barely remember how he'd got there, or how he'd travelled back in time, back to the days this house belonged to old Darby McGraw. But it was comfortable, and he didn't want to wake from this dream just yet.

“Breakfast!” a voice called out, jolting Flint awake instantly.

It wasn't a dream, nor had Silver been a figment of his imagination. Flint sat up in bed, rubbing his face. Silver was in his home, cooking breakfast. Well, it _could_ still be a dream. Perhaps he'd finally had that cup of rum too many and slipped into a slumber from which nobody could awaken him.

Though, Flint reflected, that sort of slumber probably wouldn't include such a sore head.

He found Silver nimbly manoeuvring his way through the kitchen on his crutch, as though he'd always lived there. He was rather nicely dressed, clean-shaven, his long curls tied back in a ponytail. He looked younger than when Flint had last seen him, if that was possible. He looked stronger, too, broader in the shoulders.

What on earth was he doing here?

“Ah, so you _were_ awake,” Silver said with a rather cautious smile. “I thought you might need something to, well… soak up the booze.”

Flint said nothing and settled down on the bench in front of the wooden table. He was given a bowl of porridge and a cup of water, which he sipped quietly while he tried to puzzle out this situation. Some of the previous night's conversation came back to him in fragments through the pounding haze in his head.

He remembered trying to be rid of Silver, and Silver persisting. He remembered some conversation around the treasure, and although the exact words they'd spoken escaped him, he could still see Silver's bright blue eyes when they lit up, painfully familiar. He remembered… spies. Ah, yes.

Getting out of that plantation had been much easier than Flint had expected, and the ship bound for Philadelphia waiting near the mouth of the Savannah river had been suspiciously providential. There wasn't much of anything in the area, apart from that godforsaken prison. Flint had expected he and Thomas would have to walk for weeks to find a port, fighting off natives, fending for themselves.

The ship could have been a trap. During the whole trip, Flint had suspected that somehow it would lead them to Silver, who'd have orchestrated their escape only to confront them again, to find out where the treasure was, to lock them away somewhere else, or – in Flint's wildest dreams – to apologise. Flint had imagined so many possible outcomes involving Silver that when they simply arrived in Philadelphia and walked from the ship, free to start a new life, he'd felt crushed all over again by his absence.

Silver appeared to be eating quietly, but Flint noticed how his eyes flicked over him from time to time. He also noticed the freshly drawn pails of water, the small pile of wood beside the fireplace, the bag of oats and the loaf of bread on the table. All of it brought in this morning. Was this charity born from guilt – or worse, pity – or an attempt to sway him somehow?

“Your cooking's improved,” Flint said as he sampled the porridge with more appetite than he'd have expected after a night of drinking.

“A compliment from a starving man,” Silver said, barely looking up from his food. “I'm not sure it's worth much, but I'll take it.”

“I'm not starving.” Perhaps Flint was neglecting to feed himself at times, but that definitely wasn't the same.

Silver looked him over slowly and thoughtfully. “Could've fooled me.”

Flint was tempted to tell Silver to shove his pity and fuck off, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait. He opted for something different.

“How's Madi?” Flint enjoyed the way Silver's eyelid twitched at his question.

“Madi's fine. We've been travelling a bit, and finally decided to settle down in Bristol.”

At the familiar sting in his chest, Flint regretted having asked. Jealousy. He had no business being jealous, not of her, not of their life together. Yet he had been and, apparently, still was.

“Why the hell would you bring her to bloody England?”

“Well you can talk, you're in bloody England.”

“I'm in _Cornwall_ ,” Flint snapped. “I grew up here. What's your excuse?”

“We're losing Nassau. Won't be long until everything's back the way it used to be, unsafe for the likes of Madi and me.”

Flint grunted. He'd heard Jack Rackham had been hanged, and been surprised at how much anger and sadness the news had brought. Rackham had betrayed him, but he'd made Nassau exactly what Thomas had wanted it to be, for a while.

He'd also heard Woodes Rogers was out of debtors prison and becoming famous in London, telling horrible stories about the horrible pirates of Nassau. If ever the razing of Nassau came up, the lying sack of shit would probably blame it on Flint. They should've slit his throat while they had the chance.

“What happened with Thomas?”

The question broke through Flint's thoughts like a punch in the gut, despite Silver's soft tone. Flint clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, fingers reflexively gripping the edge of the table. His head was throbbing.

“He's in France,” he managed to spit. “He's fine, that's all you need to know,” he added when he saw Silver opening his mouth to say something else.

“But you're not,” Silver said after a pause.

“What do you care?” Flint snapped. “You won. You had it your way.”

“I gave you the keys to a happier life. You had him, you were free...”

“I was broken!” Flint bellowed, standing up to hover above Silver, slamming both palms on the table. “You knew it, you knew me! Did you actually think I could stop being Flint? It's who I fucking am now!”

Silver's eyes grew wide. Wide and blue and shiny, the way Flint remembered them from the last time he'd seen him, when he'd entered that goddamn plantation. He remembered Silver staring as Flint was shoved off the cart, Silver's mouth opening to say something, and nothing coming out. And he remembered the rending in his chest, nearly a physical sensation, as he was escorted into that place by Israel Hands and his cronies.

He'd done his utmost to forget Silver. Why did the fucking little weasel have to come back and plague him now?

“I knew it wasn't ideal,” Silver said, eyes downcast, fingers worrying a knot in the wooden table. He hadn't even flinched when Flint had shouted at him. “Nothing... nothing was ideal.”

“Why are you here?” Flint asked, cutting through Silver's apparently regretful words before they got to him.

“I wanted to see you–”

“Wanted to make sure you'd still got the best out of a less-than-ideal situation, eh?”

“I _wanted_ to make sure you were all right–”

“More like Madi still doesn't believe that you didn't kill me on that island and you have to provide her with some kind of proof.”

A nasty smile curled Flint's lip when Silver shut up and just stared at him open-mouthed like a man who'd just been stabbed.

“Is that it?” Flint asked. “Or did you just come here to gloat?”

“I missed you.” Silver's voice was quiet, but it roared through Flint like a gale. Then Silver shook his head and gave a chuckle. “I dunno why, really, you're the same paranoid arsehole you always were.”

Flint averted his eyes for a moment, anger roiling in his belly, fondness surging through his chest. He had to quash one of those feelings, and right now he trusted his anger over anything else.

“But I was right. She doesn't trust you anymore, does she?”

Silver's face twisted, and though Flint's victory was bitter, he welcomed it with savage joy. Flint awaited the protests, the invectives, but none came. Silver stared at him silently, holding his gaze.

“Well at least I'm still with her.”

All of a sudden Flint felt weak, starkly aware of the trembling of his arms and the wobble in his knees and the pounding in his head and the sick feeling in his gut. With a sigh, he let himself slump back onto the bench. They avoided each other's eyes.

The silence weighed on Flint. He'd spent months alone in this old house, facing his own thoughts; now he could nearly feel them fighting in his throat to come out. He sipped his water and tried to ignore Silver, but the need to speak suddenly overwhelmed him, and words so long gone unspoken started to pour out. He spoke quietly, addressing his words more to the table than to Silver.

“It was all right at first. Even though they tried to separate us, we stuck together, found ways to get organised. It gave us a goal, getting out of there. But once we were safe in Philadelphia…” He sighed. “We did our best to start over, but… he was bewildered, a fallen lord trying to fit in with the common people, a prisoner returning into the world. We found work, but the drudgery of it wore on us. And I… I was bitter and angry. We argued. We argued all the fucking time.”

Thomas had never been acquainted with Flint's rage in London. Their arguments back then had been polite and intellectual; they hadn't known each other long enough for Flint to show him the darkness he constantly strove to hide away. Miranda had glimpsed it from the start. Miranda had seen it after they'd taken Thomas. Miranda had fed it, and formed it until he became Flint. And Silver had known it well too, perhaps much too well for his own sanity. He'd worked with it, tamed it, soothed it at times.

The darkness was alien to Thomas. Flint had done his best to bury it, keeping details of his life in Nassau from him. But stories about Gruesome Captain Flint still circulated in Philadelphia and it wasn't long before Thomas had found out about all the blood on Flint's hands. Being Thomas, he'd tried to meet these horrors with understanding, compassion and forgiveness. Being Thomas, he couldn't quite hide how appalled he was, either.

Thomas was also incredibly good with words; his tongue became razor-sharp when he was provoked. And sharpness stoked rage, and rage honed sharpness in a never-ending cycle. Their arguments were savage, each one tearing them further apart no matter how much they worked to repair the damage between arguments.

Flint shuddered at the thought, realising that he'd been quiet for a long time. Silver's eyes were fixed on him intently.

“Thomas thought things might improve if we were back on the old continent,” Flint continued. “They didn't, but it was worth a try. He managed to get back in touch with old acquaintances in France. Like-minded people, they ended up taking him in... And that's when we agreed it would be best if we parted ways.”

He could still see Thomas' face so clearly when he'd announced that he was leaving. The silver-gold of his hair, licked by the morning sun. The twist of his mouth. The glitter of tears in his eyes. He'd pulled Flint in a tight embrace, warmer than any they'd shared in the previous months. In that moment, Flint had hoped against hope to be asked to stay. Thomas only wished him a safe journey.

“I'm sorry,” Silver said. “I truly am.”

Flint closed his eyes. Silver's sympathy, or perhaps simply his soft tones, made his heart twist. The mess of his life was irretrievable.

“I get letters from time to time,” Flint said, still staring at the table. “He's doing well, meeting philosophers, authors, other noblemen...” He shook his head and took a breath. As much as Thomas wished it, there was no place for the likes of Flint in salons, especially not with his temper. “It's better that way.”

Silver was quiet for the longest time. “But you shouldn't be alone. That wasn't… I didn't want that for you.”

“Wasn't the plan, eh?” Flint smiled grimly. “Wasn't the ending you'd wanted for me?”

“No, it wasn't. But that's all right.”

Flint looked up at the shift in Silver's tone, from downcast to determined. “How so?”

“Well, it's not really the end until one of us is in the ground, is it?”

The familiar cheeky smile and glint in Silver's eyes were both deeply irritating and strangely comforting.


	2. Chapter 2

They bickered a little more as the morning drew on. Silver couldn't help pointing out that Flint didn't look very well. He'd been clammy and pale, sweating despite the chill air in that bloody cold house, his hands visibly shaking. A bad hangover, Flint called it. Silver told him to go back to bed and sleep it off, if it was just a hangover. Flint had grumbled, but gone upstairs after a while.

Silver didn't like this at all. It wasn't as though he didn't intimately know the outward signs of a drunk sobering up. He also didn't like how skinny Flint had grown and the fact that there hadn't been any food in the house, or that he didn't seem to have a job to show up to. Questions churned in his head, and he was going to get some answers before they drove him insane.

Thankfully, finding answers proved to be quite easy in a small town full of gossips. Silver chose to have lunch at the inn and idly started conversations with the innkeeper, Mr Turner, as well as his customers. Why yes, he was staying with Mr McGraw, he was an old friend from the Navy. And how was Mr McGraw doing since his retirement? It didn't take much to get them talking.

Silver was relieved to discover that Flint did have work in Padstow, mainly on fishing boats, sometimes even on ships carrying copper ore and slate to Bristol. It was a miracle that Flint managed to work for anyone at all after so many years of ordering people around. He also owned the house he lived in, although there had been some sort of trouble over tax arrears. As far as Silver could tell, Flint wasn't doing that badly financially.

He was also mildly reassured by what he gathered about Flint's drinking habits. Flint only came into the inn during periods when he was out of work, and got as drunk as the innkeeper would let him. It seemed nobody in Padstow _wanted_ to experience the height of Flint's drunken rage. Who knew Flint's temper would indirectly keep him from killing himself with liquor?

“Pah, don't talk to me about Mr McGraw's temper,” Mr Turner growled. “See that right here?” He showed Silver a deep dent on his shiny pink forehead. “That there is McGraw's handiwork.”

“Born without a soul that one, and no mistake,” said the reedy voice of an elderly lady who'd been sitting by the fire in the inn ever since Silver had come in. Several of the older fishermen sitting the bar muttered approvingly.

“What happened?” Silver asked in his most casual tone, his stomach clenching with panic. If Flint was beating up his neighbours, he'd be cast out of town before the year was up.

“I dunno what possessed him, sir. Struck me with a stone right above me eye. I could've died, sir. All of twelve years old, he was, and vicious as a rabid dog.”

Silver went very still. “Well, I'm sorry to hear that,” he said, panic giving way to rising anger. “Though I do wonder why a twelve-year-old boy would do something like that.”

As Silver expected, Mr Turner shuffled around with a slightly guilty look on his face. He took much too long to wipe a cup before he spoke. “Who knows, sir. His grandfather was Irish, so that's sure to be a part of it. Nobody ever saw his father, neither, could've inherited any sort of bad character from him.”

This was a little more information than Silver had expected to find out. He had to wrangle with several competing reactions that stormed through him all at once: the one that really didn't want to know more about Flint's likely miserable childhood, the one that was dying to know more, the one that told him to nod and smile politely and the one that screamed at him to use the handle of his crutch and finish the job young Flint had started on the innkeeper's head.

“Always said it were the devil who seduced Mary McGraw,” said the old lady by the fire. “A sea-dwelling demon, what sank back into the waters once the deed was done.”

A servant girl nearly dropped the plate she was holding, and murmurs rose around the old biddy, the hushed, reverent tones of a crowd thrilled by an uncanny tale. But the innkeeper must have picked up on the curl of Silver's lip, or the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped his crutch, because he grimaced embarrassedly.

“Forgive me old mum, sir,” he said. “She's getting on, and don't know what she's saying. 'Twas just a child's brawl gone too far, nothing more.”

Silver glared at him before he left, hoping that the look on his face conveyed exactly how ready he was to burn this fucking inn to the ground if he heard any more of this nonsense. Why Flint had decided to return to this place, to these bigoted arseholes, was beyond Silver.

When Silver returned to the house, it was with vegetables, a whole chicken and the vow to get that stubborn man to take better care of himself. What did he spend his money on, if it wasn't on food or liquor? Or was his ability to keep a job down so poor that he went stretches without anything? How on earth was Silver going to broach the subject without getting his head bitten off?

Everything was silent apart from the gentle crackle of the fire, and Silver couldn't shake the feeling that the house was empty. He put the chicken down and waited a moment, listening. It was more than just silence. Flint had filled the space with his presence, even as he slept, and now Silver couldn't perceive it anymore.

The staircase beckoned. Silver told himself it would be easier to climb in daylight, and he definitely was curious to see the room Flint slept in. So he hobbled up the stone stairs – devilish slippery winding things, intent on making him trip – and found himself on a landing with two doors. One was closed, and the other opened on a small room. A modest wooden bed, barely big enough for two, took up most of the space. It was empty, the sheets carefully tucked, as though Flint hadn't even slept in it.

A gust of wind blew in Silver's curls, drawing his attention to the small window. Several small panes were smashed or cracked, and one of the wooden shutters was missing. The other shutter was closed, and seemed to be decomposing before Silver's very eyes. Dry leaves lay on the floor, blown in by the wind. How Flint could sleep in such cold was beyond Silver. And it was only autumn; what would happen, come winter?

Silver tried the door to the other room. It opened onto a stuffy room that smelled of stale dust. There was another bed in there, a four-poster with a wooden canopy, much nicer than the other one. From the dust on the sheets, it was obvious that nobody had slept in it for a long time.

In a corner, Silver noticed a surface piled high with papers. On closer inspection, most of them turned out to be unbound books. He counted over a dozen, shaking his head incredulously. No wonder Flint was out of penny if he was buying books.

Silver gingerly took the steps back down, his mind still racing as he tried to make sense of these new discoveries. Just then the back door swung open and Silver nearly lost his balance from the start it gave him. Flint strode in, hair hanging wetly around his shoulders, his skin practically glowing pink. Ah, the back garden. It looked like Flint had spent a while with the rainwater barrel, a rag, and a bar of soap.

Flint's pride was hurt, Silver thought, so he was making a show of proving that he could take care of himself. If he thought it would be that easy to get Silver to leave him alone, he had another thing coming.

“What's this?” Flint asked, gesturing to the chicken on the table.

Silver dragged himself down the last few steps and joined Flint in the kitchen. The closer he came, the harder he found it not to stare. Flint's shirt was a little loose, baring more freckled, still-damp skin than it really should. Long strands of soaked hair clung to his throat, dripping beads of water along his skin.

“I asked you a question.”

“Hmm?” Silver's mouth had gone very dry.

“What did you go and buy that for?”

“Oh, where I come from we eat these. Don't you?”

Flint glared. “I'm not a charity case.”

“It's just my thank you for your hospitality,” Silver answered, settling down at the table and pulling the chicken to him so that he could pluck it.

“Do you even know what to do with a chicken?” Flint set himself down at the table opposite Silver, as he had done that morning.

“Ha-ha. It's not because I didn't know how to cook a whole pig on an open fire that I don't know how to cook at all, you know?”

Flint raised his eyebrows dubiously.

“I own an inn now. I have to cook every day, and they'll lynch me if it's underdone.”

“An inn?” Flint's forehead wrinkled, as though he could barely imagine it. “Is that what you're doing in Bristol?”

“Amongst other things. It's called the Spyglass Inn, we've been there about three months. Perhaps you've heard of it?” Apparently, Flint had been to Bristol in the last few months; the thought of him having been so close made Silver's stomach flutter.

“Can't say I have.”

“Too busy buying books when you're in town, I suppose.”

Flint shot him a glare. “What I do with my wages isn't your concern.”

“It is if you're starving yourself,” Silver retorted, ripping out a particularly large handful of feathers.

“You're a nosy little shit, anyone ever told you that? Who've you been talking with?”

“I had lunch at the inn. You've got quite a reputation, I didn't need to ask many questions.”

“No, I suppose not,” Flint said with a sneer. “They'd jump at a chance to talk behind my back. What did they say?”

“That you were rude and annoying at best, and dangerous at worst, ever since you were a child. So much for Flint just being some persona you made up to wage war on England.”

Flint grimaced and gave a shrug. “Perhaps I needed to wage war here too, back in the day.”

“I hear you nearly killed the innkeeper.”

“Turner?” Flint rolled his eyes. “He was pinning me down and I knocked him with a stone. Nothing really out of the ordinary, except that time I hit him harder than usual.”

Silver vividly remembered what Flint had done to Singleton, the pure fury of his fight against him. He didn't want to know what Mr Turner had said to enrage a young Flint to such a degree, though he'd gone some pretty good clues from the stories going around the inn.

“Why on earth would you come back here? You hate these people, and they hate you back. I swear someone nearly made the sign of the cross when they were speaking about you.”

“Hair red as hellfire, mark of the devil,” Flint supplied.

Silver had figured as much; Flint had been dealt a pretty bad hand, being born a bastard _and_ a redhead. He'd been lucky that his mother's parents hadn't turfed their daughter out.

“And yet you choose to live with these backward idiots.”

“This house was my grandfather's, it's where I grew up and it's my home.” He looked into Silver's eyes. “I didn't just spend my money on books, you know. I did my best to repair what time had ravaged here.”

“You sleep in the room with the broken window?” And Silver still wondered why, since there was another room which was warmer and had a better bed, but he didn't dare mention that.

Flint rolled his eyes. “You had no business going upstairs. And yes, I'm well aware it needs repairing.”

“Soon. You'll catch your death.”

“Are you this annoying with Madi?”

Silver smiled through the sting of that question. “She certainly says so. We have our disagreements.”

“I can't believe you talked her into running an inn, of all things,” Flint said with a snort.

“Madi would have rather set up a coffee house.” At the look in Flint's eyes, Silver pre-emptively cut off his next comment. “Don't tell me – you'd have agreed with her.”

“I'm sure an inn will bring in more revenue,” Flint said, and Silver wondered if he was imagining the twinkle in Flint's eye. “And, I suppose, it won't risk attracting as much attention from the authorities, since coffee shops attract rabble-rousers.”

“But you'd have agreed with her,” Silver repeated flatly.

Flint gave a shrug. “What does it matter? It's not as though the three of us are partners anymore, is it?”

Partners. The memory of having them both beside him, both trusting him, made Silver's heart twist. He caught Flint looking at him, and quickly went back to plucking.

“I'm not sure I could have taken it, the two of you ganging up on me all the time,” he said glibly, though the memory pained him. The moment Flint and Madi had started seeing eye-to-eye, he'd sensed that they'd soon slip far beyond his control, and disappear, engulfed in their own thirst for justice.

Flint said nothing. He simply watched Silver, his eyes not quite as sharp and angry as they had been earlier.

“She didn't like you at first, you know,” Silver said to fill the silence, removing the last feathers from the bird. “Didn't trust you. I spent months trying to persuade her that you were trustworthy. Then I leave the two of you a few days and when I come back you're thick as thieves.”

Flint shrugged. “It soon became apparent that we had many things in common, once we actually started talking.”

“And you liked her.” The words were bitter on his tongue. Trust the two people he cared about most to end up liking each other better than they liked him.

“She's well-read, clever, wise, kind, she has a keen mind for strateg–”

“We're married now, you know.”

And it was true, though it was vastly more complicated than that. Silver had only said it to see Flint's reaction and wasn't disappointed when he saw the familiar twitch in Flint's cheek. It was the very same twitch Silver had noticed when he'd told Flint, back in Nassau, how much he cared for Madi. Back then, he'd thought that Flint was irritated that this new relationship might add a complication to their plan, or that he'd been unsettled by mentions of Thomas. But now…

“Does she know you're here?” Flint asked, cutting Silver's thoughts short.

“Obviously. It was her idea.”

“Her idea,” Flint repeated flatly, incredulity etched in his features. Years had gone by, and Flint and Madi still looked so alike in their distrust.

Nothing had been the same since Silver had put an end to the war. He'd been allowed to stay and try to regain Madi's trust. He'd worked with her, brought back anything that could be useful to her, done anything he could think of that might please her. It was never enough; any progress he made was soon undone by returning distrust and resentment. At times he wondered if Madi didn't keep him beside her as a punishment, a constant reminder of what he had done to her.

And now the same challenge awaited him with Flint. He shouldn't have expected anything less, really.

“Yes, it was her idea. She told me to go and find you, because apparently my wondering about your whereabouts was getting quite annoying.”

Flint's forehead wrinkled. “What, couldn't keep me out of your sight in case I tried to exact revenge on you in the dead of night?”

Silver had to snort at how incredibly far off the mark Flint was. “Yes, my terror of you knows no bounds,” he said drily, throwing the bird's innards onto the table.

There wasn't a day that went by without Flint's name being mentioned. Silver had brought Madi news of Flint in the plantation, hoping to draw her out of her silent anger. He'd told her about his plans to get him out, and the stories that came back from Philadelphia. He'd fretted about losing track of Flint when he'd left for the Old Continent.

Madi always eyed him dubiously when he told these tales. Still, she'd been patient. She'd always let him talk. But her temper was shorter since they'd got to Bristol; perhaps she was finally sick of him.

“Anyway, as fate would have it, Padstow's only a day away from Bristol by ship, so it was my first stop. Aren't I the lucky one?”

“Or your wife,” Flint said. “She'll have you back with her faster than she expected.”

It was as though Flint knew how much of a fucking mess this marriage was and enjoyed rubbing it in.

“Hm, she might be disappointed,” Silver said lightly. “She'll hardly have any time at all to turn the inn into a coffee house.”

When Flint actually chuckled, Silver's chest filled with a soft glow that he preferred not to think about too much. He wagered it would go cold soon enough.

Later that evening, after a meal of stewed chicken – rather good, if Silver said so himself – Flint lit a candle and marched upstairs wordlessly. Silver watched him go, trying to repress the frustration of yet another failed attempt at connecting with him.

They'd spoken little, or rather Silver had spoken a lot and Flint had barely said anything. Silver had told him about his continued piracy, about Madi accommodating to life in Bristol, about the thousands of small difficulties they had to overcome as they set up shop there, and other details that required little answer from Flint. Anything was better than supping in silence.

There was noise upstairs, surely more than was necessary for Flint to get himself to bed. Silver heard footsteps and shuffling just above him. Flint had to be in the second, closed bedroom, which was all the more puzzling.

Before Silver had time to wonder any longer, Flint came down the stairs dragging a thick straw mattress along with him. He met Silver's eye briefly, then set it down in a corner of the room, close enough to the fireplace that it would be nice and warm, even though it was right on the cold slate floor.

“Thanks.” Silver could barely conceal his pleasure at the implied invitation to stay and the gruff attempt at making him more comfortable.

“Least I could do for someone who's intent on buying me food,” Flint grumbled. He went back up for sheets and a blanket. They'd likely be as musty as the rest of the house, but Silver had definitely had worse and looked forward to actually lying down.

When Flint returned, Silver smiled at him. Flint's only response was to thrust the sheets into Silver's arms with a curt nod and a stern glare before retiring to his room.

Well. It was progress.


	3. Chapter 3

Miranda was on the ceiling.

Flint awoke to see her staring down at him, her eyes dark and turbulent as the sea. In her hands she held the leather-bound _Meditations_. Its pages fluttered around in the wind, then settled on a page. A single sentence was printed over and over:

_What is all this for, but a nauseous bag of blood and corruption?_

He wanted to get up, out of Miranda's insistent gaze, but a heavy weight on his chest prevented him from moving. Thomas loomed over him, tears glistening on his cheeks.

“James. Nobody ever asked you to massacre thousands of people in my name.” It was barely more than a whisper, but the grief in Thomas' voice clawed at Flint's insides.

“It always has to be your way, doesn't it?” Miranda's voice was stern, as though she were chiding a small boy. “Even if your way is utter destruction.”

A look passed between Thomas and Miranda before their eyes returned to Flint, disappointed, pitying. Blood dripped from the wound on Miranda's temple and spattered the sheets, the book, Thomas' golden hair. Flint screwed his eyes shut, but the sentence was burned in his brain.

_What is all this for, but a nauseous bag of blood and corruption?_

“At the end of the day, that's all I am,” Thomas' voice said in the darkness behind Flint's eyelids, its soft, kind tone a dagger to his heart. “What did grief and vengeance bring you? Did they make you a better man?”

When Flint opened his eyes again Miranda's pallid face was inches from his. Her breath was icy, hissing around his ears.

“What did it bring us?” Her whisper was so loud Flint was sure it would make his head burst. Her voice rose as she spoke, bitter, enraged. “Ashes. You burn everything you touch and leave ashes in your wake.”

“Not in my name, James.” Thomas' face was flushed now, his eyes blazing with wrath, his voice hardening. “Not in my name.”

Flint wanted to plead with them, beg and grovel for forgiveness, but he could no more speak than he could move.

Still Miranda's voice grew louder, a bellow, a roar. “I died for him! I died for you! Is that how you repay me, by giving up? What pathetic excuse for a man are you?!”

An unearthly wail made Flint jolt up in his bed, heart hammering, sweat-soaked nightshirt clinging to him. He struggled in his tangled sheets and dropped to his knees, thudding onto the cold floor by the bed, trembling from limb to limb.

“Jesus,” Flint heard Silver gasp from downstairs. Then, louder: “Everything all right up there?”

Flint could swear his heart was going to stop any moment now. It was galloping much too fast; he could barely catch his breath, and the room seemed to be shifting and swaying around him. Something downstairs scraped and tapped on the stone floor, setting Flint's teeth on edge. It took a while for him to realise it was Silver's crutch.

“Can you hear me?” Silver's voice came from the bottom of the stairs. “Are you all right?”

Before Flint managed to gather enough breath – and wits – to answer, he heard Silver start up the stairs. At one point something metallic rasped and chimed loudly against the stone wall, followed by a snarled “ow, fuck!”; the noise made Flint's whole body twitch. A dim light in the stairway slowly became brighter, until Flint had to screw up his eyes in its glare.

“Last bloody time I do that,” Silver announced as he finally hobbled towards Flint, holding a candle. The flame cast strange shadows on his face.

Flint looked up at him, still choking on the tightness of his own throat. He could hear his own pulse racing, feel every thump as though his heart wanted to hammer its way out of his chest. His breath came in gasps, short and shallow, as though he couldn't remember how to breathe deeper, and his body still shook uncontrollably. This was it, Flint thought. After dodging swords and bullets and cannonballs, this was how he was going to die. What a bloody disgrace.

“God, it's cold as the Arctic in here.”

“Thanks for the fucking commentary,” Flint managed to snap, although it felt as though he was using his last breath to do so. Silver looked down at him thoughtfully.

“I did say you should get that window repaired.”

“My heart's about to give out and all you've got for me is 'I told you so'?” Flint spluttered.

“I… really doubt that's going to happen,” Silver said, although Flint caught the hesitation in his voice and the way his eyes had widened.

“How the fuck would you know?!” Flint could hear the high-pitched panic in his tone and loathed himself for it.

Silver gave a long-suffering sigh as he put the candle down onto the small chest beside the bed; the flame flickered as the wind caught it. Only then did Flint realise a gale was blowing outside, whistling around the broken windowpanes.

Cautiously, Silver lowered himself to the floor beside Flint. Before he could make another of his bloody stupid comments, Flint grabbed Silver's hand and placed it in the middle of his chest so that he could feel the thundering heart for himself.

Silver's palm was warm through the thin fabric of Flint's shirt, solid, real. A shiver, stronger than the previous tremors, coursed through all of Flint's body. He felt Silver lean closer, pressing harder into his flesh. Flint stared at him in wonder, his dishevelled locks, his thoughtful blue eyes, the pout on his lips. Perhaps, Flint caught himself thinking, it wouldn't be such a bloody disgrace to die like this after all.

“Your heart feels strong,” Silver said after a while. His voice was impossibly soft.

When Silver's free hand came to squeeze his upper arm, Flint thought he might crumble under its comfort. He _wanted_ to crumble, to give in at last to the longing to trust Silver again. He couldn't though, not yet. Not before he truly knew Silver's purpose.

“See? Your heart's slowing. You're all right, just breathe deep.”

Flint realised, as Silver spoke, that he wasn't gasping for air anymore, though he didn't remember when he'd gone back to deeper breaths. Silver was still looking into his face, his gentle expression utterly disarming.

“Fine,” Flint said roughly. He was still shaking from head to toe, but forced himself to let go of Silver's hand and push it away from his chest. “You were right. Now go back to bed.”

Silver scoffed. “Fat chance of that. I'm not going down those stairs in the dark, and you're not sleeping alone in the cold. C'mon.”

Silver hauled himself up onto the bed, then patted the mattress beside him.

“You've really got bossy,” Flint muttered.

“I learned from the best,” Silver shot back, looking down at him.

With a sigh, Flint pulled himself up beside Silver and sat there, still trembling relentlessly, cold sweat running down his back. It wasn't just the room's frigid temperature. He hadn't had a drink in a while, and that was likely the culprit. That, and the bloody dream.

“Go on, then,” Silver said, nudging him with his shoulder. Flint gave in and slid beneath the sheets and the heavy woollen blanket, all of which felt cold and damp. Silver followed, pulling the sheets snugly over them. They faced each other in the bed; the moon and the small candle lit the room just enough for Flint to make out Silver's features.

“There, isn't that better?”

“And smug, too,” Flint grumbled. Perhaps that would hide how vulnerable he felt lying beside Silver. He didn't recall ever being this close to him, wearing so little clothing.

“Smug, and making sure you stay alive another day. As I have done since we met, really.”

Flint frowned at him in the gloom. Silver had the audacity to smile winningly, the little shit. And Flint couldn't even argue, Silver _had_ saved Flint several times where most people would have been happy to be rid of him.

“Never understood why.”

Silver gave a little shrug and turned onto his back, his shoulder nearly brushing against Flint in the narrow bed; Flint backed away. “At first? Survival. Then it became a habit. A bad habit, I suppose.” He chuckled, and the sound brought an involuntary smile to Flint's lips. “At the end, survival again.”

Despite Silver's answer, Flint couldn't say he understood any better. He wondered how he'd ever managed to read Silver, back in the day, considering how incapable he was of doing it now.

Before he'd entered the plantation, Flint had felt sure that he knew Silver's motives. He'd seen Silver torn up, terrified, desperate to escape the war. He'd believed Silver intended for him to be safe – imprisoned, but safe. He'd even hoped that Silver would be back, eventually, when the panic lifted and he realised what he'd done. That day never came. Doubts ate at Flint, replacing hope with bitterness, and any remaining compassion with scorn.

The more unable Flint had been to to say anything coherent to Thomas about Silver and his relationship with him, the more Thomas' curiosity grew. When he wasn't utterly tongue-tied, Flint painted Silver in turn as a con-man, an ally, or a villain, and none of it really fit. Thomas poked holes in each of Flint's stories with terribly reasonable questions and comments, trying to make him admit something that he couldn't say out loud. This never failed to send Flint into a rage, until Thomas stopped asking. Silver disappeared into Flint's silence, an elusive ghost.

And now Silver lay there, close enough for Flint to reach out and touch him. Gone was the dark, vicious, power-hungry Silver of their days conquering Nassau. Gone was the paranoid, vengeful, enraged Silver who wanted Flint dead on Skeleton Island. This Silver was charming and cheeky. This Silver played the part of a caring friend. Flint wished he could believe it wasn't all an act, but he knew how good Silver was at wearing different faces.

“What did you dream about?” Silver asked softly.

“Nothing that concerns you.”

“Is it still Miranda?” Silver glanced towards Flint, taking in the look on his face. “Thought as much.”

Flint rolled his eyes, and then rolled over so that he too was staring at the ceiling. Once more, he couldn't stop himself from speaking, ill-advised as it was. “I was awake. I was awake and she and Thomas were looming over me, and I couldn't move.”

“I know that sort of dream. I had those after they took off my leg, don't you remember?”

“I remember you waking up screaming. You didn't tell me why.”

“I kept seeing dark figures looking down at me, threatening me with a mallet or a cleaver, and even though they weren't holding me down, I couldn't move or escape. And it felt…”

“Real,” Flint supplied. “I could have sworn I was awake.”

“Is… is Miranda why it didn't work out with Thomas?” Silver asked quietly. “Her death, I mean. I remember how much it tortured you.”

Flint lay there, eyes wide, his breath stolen away again. Now he knew why his instincts told him to beware of Silver. He was still uncannily good at finding chinks in people's armour.

Of course Miranda's absence had played a part in the failure of their relationship. How could it not? No matter how much Thomas said he didn't blame Flint for her death, Flint saw the grief on his face at the barest mention of her. He saw the small grimaces Thomas made when Flint spoke of Miranda's life in New Providence, as though he'd guessed that Miranda was lonely and outcast and not loved as much as she could have been.

The hole in their lives where Miranda had once been seemed to grow greater every day. Without her, his and Thomas' passion burned much too bright, consuming them. Without her, all he and Thomas seemed to be good at was hurting the other. Without her, it simply didn't work, just as it hadn't truly worked between him and Miranda after they had lost Thomas.

“Is that why you deny yourself food, and warmth, and being with him?”

“What's it to you if it is?” Flint snapped, though his eyes burned with tears.

“I thought that'd be obvious.” Silver's voice had grown louder. “I don't want you to die.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, 'why'?” There was outrage in Silver's voice, and he shifted in the bed to face Flint, leaning close to him. “Because death is bloody final, that's why!”

Flint huffed, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the ceiling. “So?”

“So?” Silver said, his voice hushed. “You're my friend. That should be reason enough.”

Flint squeezed his eyes closed. His chest still tingled where Silver had touched him earlier. His throat was tight, his heart fluttered. He could feel Silver's breath on his skin. God, how he wished he could just believe Silver.

“I _used_ to be your friend,” he heard himself say in his coldest, haughtiest tone.

Silver went quiet for so long that Flint wasn't even sure he'd spoken the words out loud.

“Fine, whatever,” Silver mumbled at last. Flint heard him turn over and snuff out the candle.

The room went dark all at once and utter silence fell. Flint could tell by the sound of Silver's breath that he stayed awake. He lay there, too close to Silver and too far from him all at once, and didn't sleep either.

A few hours later, when the darkness in the room turned to dim shadows, Flint listened to Silver sliding out of bed, picking up his crutch, and making his way downstairs. Flint's heart skipped a beat when he heard a skidding sound, followed by a hissed “shit!” There was silence, then Silver made it down the last few steps. Flint let out a relieved sigh and rolled over into the warm spot Silver had left in his bed.

Sunshine blazed straight into Flint's face and he shifted away from it, confused. It had barely been dawn minutes before, hadn't it? He sat up in bed, squinting in the grey morning light. Apparently, he'd dozed off after Silver had left.

Every embarrassing detail of the previous night came rushing back into Flint's memory. He'd dreamt. He'd felt sick with grief and guilt and probably the lack of drink after having indulged in it for too long. He wouldn't have been bothered by either of those things, if Silver hadn't seen him in such a state and if he hadn't been so fucking caring about it. Flint found himself wishing he hadn't been such an arse to him in return.

As he rose, Flint couldn't help but shiver. The room _was_ bloody chilly. He stood by the window, idly contemplating its single rotting shutter. His grandfather would have turned in his grave if he'd seen the state of the house when Flint had returned. The dilapidated roof had leaked water down the small bedroom's wall, and mould had spread from there. Those shutters, exposed to the damp inside and the rain outside, hadn't stood a chance. One of them had collapsed in a pile of mushy splinters when he'd tried to open it, and he hadn't touched the other, knowing full well it would go the same way.

At least his grandfather's bed had been safe in the other bedroom. That and the glass panes in the windows had been old Darby's greatest pride. After years of fishing expeditions, he'd settled down on land to run a carpentering trade – ships always needed repairs, and Padstow was never short of ships. Flint wished he'd been a better apprentice to his grandfather, but he'd always been torn between the hunger for knowledge and the call of the sea. There hadn't been much room for anything else.

After a while, it dawned on Flint that the house was absolutely silent. He padded downstairs quietly, supposing that Silver had gone back to sleep in his own bed.

He hadn't. The room was bathed in gloomy grey light. Silver was nowhere to be seen, and neither were his things. It was as though he'd never been there at all.

Flint whiled the hours away, pretending that he wasn't waiting for Silver's return. After washing his hands and face, he worked on paring down the wild growth of his beard to something tidier. He couldn't bring himself to shave it all off; the clean-shaven look reminded him too much of the last few years with Thomas.

Grooming his beard took longer than expected. Flint had to fight the slight trembling of his hands all through it, but he wasn't entirely displeased with the final result, though it didn't hide how gaunt he'd become over the past few months. He ate a little, then carried his linens to the laundress. Her curt answers barely concealed how much she mistrusted and despised him.

He avoided the inn. His hands still shook at random and he was sweatier than usual. He hated being under liquor's thumb, hated the way it made him pay whenever he stopped drinking. He'd sworn to himself several times that he'd stop for good, but he returned to the bottle soon enough; there were too many memories that needed dulling, and too much time to think about them while he was idle.

Silver wasn't back by noon; perhaps he'd chosen to have lunch at the inn again and collect more gossip from the townspeople. Flint ate some more, since there was still bread left and he didn't like to see good food go stale. He then busied himself by sweeping the house; leaves and sand and dust had gathered everywhere at an alarming rate.

By mid-afternoon, Flint couldn't keep the thought at bay any longer. Silver had gone. Whatever had passed between them the previous night had obviously been too much for him to handle. Perhaps Flint's stubborn rebuttals had disheartened him. Perhaps Silver didn't care enough to put in the effort to regain Flint's trust.

Flint cursed himself. Cursed himself for letting Silver insinuate himself back into his life, into his home, awakening half-buried feelings and longings. Cursed himself for thinking that he understood, even a little, what truly motivated Silver. Cursed himself especially for being unable to give Silver a chance to mend bridges. He'd made bloody sure their relationship stayed broken, hadn't he?

The door abruptly opened to the musical tones of Silver's voice, chattering away. He hadn't even bothered knocking. Flint stood up to face him, heart in his mouth, throat still clenched painfully.

“Oh.” Silver caught sight of him and stopped, gazing at him for a moment with a half-smile on his lips. “Hello.” Then he turned to someone outdoors. “This is Mr McGraw whom I told you about.”

He let another man in, a portly fellow carrying a large case. The man gave Flint a nod and a curt greeting.

“This is Mr Pascoe. D'you have any idea how far I had to go to find a glazier?” Silver asked with a chuckle, the sort of chuckle he made when he knew he was pushing his luck. “I thought I was going to have to make one come over from Bristol.”

Flint just glared as the new situation sunk in. Where his chest had felt hollow and cold a few minutes ago, anger started to simmer.

“Bodmin. That's how far.” Silver continued, oblivious. “Then he had to finish something, collect his things– it took ages.” He turned to the glazier. “It's upstairs. Careful with the shutter, it looks ready to fall off its hinges.”

A twitch curled Flint's lip into a snarl as he watched the stranger walk upstairs, up _his_ stairs, into _his_ house. His eyes then focused on Silver, who had the good grace to look slightly uncomfortable.

“I saw how cold it got in there last night so I–”

“Interfered.” Flint's voice was a low growl.

It wasn't just that, but by god Flint wasn't going to admonish Silver for leaving the house without telling him first and driving him half-mad with the thought that he'd gone for good.

“Look, I know glass is expensive, and after everything I thought–”

“That you'd take pity on me.”

Silver scowled at him. “Pride won't keep you warm at night, you know? You can be angry all you like, I don't care. I'm doing this for you.”

“This is _my_ home!” Flint burst out. “How dare you come in and try–”

“To put things right? To help?”

Flint wanted to curse Silver, to shake him, to make him understand that his displays of charity did nothing to mend their relationship. He was about to launch into a tirade, but something about the way Silver's face screwed up and his eyes glistened made the words die in Flint's throat.

Unable to stand that sight or to think of a coherent answer, Flint pulled on his coat with a grunt and made for the door. He slammed it behind him, and cringed at the sound of the second shutter collapsing within the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What is all this for, but a nauseous bag of blood and corruption?” is taken from a 1742 translation of Marcus Aurelius' _[Meditations](http://oll.libertyfund.org/titles/2133#lfHutcheson_label_996)_. It appears in a paragraph that points out how useless it is to grieve for someone who has died rather than carrying on with your life, underlining that however much you love someone, they are still “a nauseous bag of blood and corruption” (basically, a body with all its crude functions) and not worth pining over more than any other.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might see from the updated tags, I added a warning for some disturbing content. It's just mentioned in passing, literally 3 sentences.
> 
> Also this story has finally come into its "explicit" rating. NSFW chapter ahoy.

Flint sulked through the evening, eating little and speaking less. He said nothing about the repaired window, but Silver couldn't help being pleased with himself. It had been pricey but he didn't regret it one bit. In fact, Silver had expected to spend much more money on a long, possibly fruitless journey in search of Flint. This way of spending it was better, even if Flint was being stubborn about it.

The next morning Silver woke up with a jolt when Flint threw open all the shutters at the crack of dawn, then slammed the back door. Just when Silver had caught his breath after that nasty start, Flint returned with wood and tools, likely from the shed in the garden. He settled at the table and busied himself in the noisiest ways imaginable, slamming planks down, sawing, planing, hammering. Somehow he even managed to make noise when he was taking measurements.

At first Silver glared at Flint crossly, head still buried in his mattress, unimpressed by Flint's latest attempt to prove he could take care of himself. After a while, though, Silver decided he might as well sit back in his bed and enjoy the show. Watching Flint, especially flexing his muscles as he hammered, always proved to be worthwhile. Besides, Silver was curious to see what Flint was capable of building; he'd been much better at burning things down than making things, back in Nassau.

The shutters that took form under Silver's eyes seemed perfectly functional, if very simple. Silver didn't attempt to follow Flint upstairs to see the final result, but Flint certainly seemed pleased with himself when he came back down and gathered his tools. In the meantime, Silver had washed and dressed, and felt a little less like the living dead.

Quite surprisingly, considering that he was still sulking, Flint set two places for a meal of bread, butter and cheese.

“Well, do they work?” Silver asked, finally breaking the silence.

Flint chewed a long time before he answered. “They'll do.”

“You're certainly full of surprises,” Silver said with a smile. “I had no idea you were that good at making things.”

“I'm barely passable.”

Silver had to fight hard against his impulse to roll his eyes at Flint's terse answers. “Who taught you?”

“My grandfather.”

“It does beg the question, though. If you knew how to fix the shutter, why did you wait so long?”

Flint shot him an icy glare. Silver went back to his food for a while, but he couldn't stand the silence for long.

“So… are you hiding other talents?” Silver shot him his best grin. “Are you also an accomplished fiddler? Do you whittle?”

Flint stared at him for a while, then stood up and gathered his coat. At Silver's questioning gaze, he muttered: “I'm going for a walk.” Then the door slammed behind him.

Silver sat there, bewildered, cursing Flint for being an impossible fucking shithead, before he pulled on his coat and followed him. It wasn't hard to find out where he'd gone. The townspeople kept an eye out for Flint, making sure to get out of the way of his wrath. Flint had headed for Stepper Point, a hilly headland overlooking the place where the river Camel threw itself into the sea.

One thing Silver would never understand was Flint's obsession with bloody fucking hills and cliffs. He supposed that today it was on purpose, that Flint knew Silver couldn't easily come after him in difficult terrain. But even back in the day, Silver already wondered if Flint drew some kind of perverse pleasure from torturing Silver with sharp inclines and rocky paths.

“Oi!” he called after Flint once he caught sight of him. To his surprise, Flint turned and waited until Silver was a few steps away from him before picking up his silent march at a punishing pace.

It took the best part of an hour to reach Stepper Point, and Silver was covered in sweat by then, despite the chill wind whistling in his ears. Flint glanced back at him from time to time, as though checking whether he was still following.

“God you walk quickly,” Silver all but gasped once Flint finally stopped at the edge of the grassy promontory. His thigh and back were throbbing angrily.

Silver looked out at the horizon while he caught his breath. He had to admit the view on the sea, grey and foaming below them, framed by green hills and yellow sands, was rather breathtaking. Maybe Flint's yearning for hills and cliffs wasn't some punishment after all. Maybe he just liked to see the world from a distant vantage point rather than up close, in all its dirt and grime and misery. Maybe he just liked to watch the sea.

Even though it was tied in a ponytail, Flint's hair was a veritable mane that puffed up with every gust of wind. Silver had become so used to the memory of Flint's shorn head that this new picture was still fascinating. He couldn't stop himself from staring, admiring the stark contrast of this fiery hair and beard with the bright green landscape.

Flint must have noticed he was being watched, because he turned to Silver and scowled at him, as though daring him to voice his thoughts out loud. His sudden glare sent a wave of panic through Silver.

“I'm not gonna apologise,” were the first stupid, childish words that came tumbling out of Silver's mouth.

“Do you think you can buy back my friendship?” Flint asked, his voice colder than the wind. “It's what you do isn't it? Ingratiate yourself with people, make yourself useful, make yourself needed, before bending them to your will.”

“Oh please,” Silver cried. “What on earth could I want to get out from you in return?”

“Who knows? Why should I believe that you don't have an ulterior motive?”

Silver would have preferred a punch in the face to those words, but he squared his shoulders and glared right back at Flint. “I don't care what you think I'm doing. I know why I'm doing it.”

“You certainly haven't changed, have you?”

“Neither have you.” He chuckled, then, a hollow sound. “Christ, I actually thought you'd changed, after we left Skeleton Island.”

Flint gave Silver a sharp look, his face hardening further. “Yeah?”

“When we were travelling to the plantation, I thought I saw you change. Give up this Flint persona. You became… unfamiliar. I thought I was seeing James McGraw.”

Flint's mouth twisted and he shook his head. “You weren't seeing anything new. James McGraw was always there for those who knew where to look. If I seemed unfamiliar to you, perhaps it was because you didn't _want_ to see that side of me.”

Silver bristled at the words, but couldn't deny that it was possible. A part of Flint had always eluded him. He couldn't fathom how Flint had functioned, James McGraw had always been there. It would have meant that Flint carried his grief every day, just beneath his skin, tormenting him. In Flint's place, Silver would have buried it and found someone else to be, someone hard who couldn't be hurt by his past.

It was stupid, though. A myriad of memories returned, filled with Flint's soft eyes and easy smiles – and God, Silver missed them so much. Of course he'd seen other sides to Flint, but never the weary, confused, practically docile man that he had become after their journey to the plantation. Flint had struggled on Skeleton Island, even after Silver had revealed that Thomas was alive. They'd had to drag him to the boat. He'd cursed and screamed and threatened and then… nothing.

“I know I saw something,” Silver insisted. “Some change, I mean. You didn't try to escape, you stopped arguing, you went quiet… I thought you'd realised something good was awaiting you there.”

“Is that what you had to tell yourself, to make yourself feel better about the whole thing?” Flint asked in a low voice, his face trembling with that nervous twitch of his.

Silver ground his teeth at the nasty squeezing in his chest as the lies he'd told himself unravelled. His every instinct told him not to let them unravel further, but he couldn't help himself. “Tell me, then. Tell me what I was seeing.”

“You defeated me. You wore me down and you stamped the fight out of me, using every weapon you had until I had nothing left to fight with. So I gave up. Do you think there was any hope left in me, at that moment?”

The words ripped through Silver's memories, bringing forth pictures that he'd done his best to forget: Flint's eyes refusing to meet his in the ship sailing to the plantation, the slump of his shoulders, the raw expression on his face. Silver cast about for the word that would define what he'd seen, but it eluded him.

“Well, I'm not going to apologise for that either.”

“Fine,” Flint spat. “But don't fucking pretend it was for my own good.”

“I brought you back to Thomas!”

“Yeah, when the moment suited you, in the way that suited you. You had one of your scouts in there, you could've got Thomas out right away, rather than put me in there with him. You'd been planning to have me imprisoned ever since you found out about that place, hadn't you?”

Silver's gut clenched; Flint's words reminded him too much of a conversation he'd had with Madi. They were wrong. He hadn't told them about Thomas, true enough. He'd been tempted not to tell them at all. But he'd had no idea what to do with that piece of information until he'd spoken with Rackham. None of that mattered, of course; Flint or Madi didn't care to know the truth.

“Did you even know what sort of people were in there?” Flint continued. “The ones who tormented children? The one who his got his sister pregnant? That one man who _ate_ a servant? Do you think Thomas belonged there? Do you think _I_ belonged there?”

“Of course not!” Silver burst out. “Your war – yours and Madi's – was going to kill you both. I panicked, all right? It's all I could think of. Do you know Rackham was planning to murder you? I had to find _something_ to make it stop.”

Flint blinked and took a step back, deflating slightly. “We could've found a way to keep Madi safe.”

And Silver was transported back to another conversation, one where Flint had named him and Madi the leaders of the rebellion. Unstoppable together, complementary. The world in balance. As if Flint intended to let the war consume him, to write himself out of the story, leaving Silver and Madi to reign. He hadn't changed, Silver realised, his heart squeezing painfully.

“But what about you?” Silver said, voice tight around the knot in his throat.

Flint shrugged. “What about me? You'd have been rid of me sooner or later.”

“Why do you do this?! Why do you twist every word I say? I didn't want to be rid of you! Not until you stabbed me in the fucking back!”

Flint's eyes went wide at Silver's outburst, but then he snorted haughtily. “Really? This from the master backstabber himself?”

Silver felt his face contort with a rage that still boiled in him, years later. “It was _gold_ , gold against people's lives! Madi's life, your life, _our_ happiness! Real people, against the hollow promise of a war to avenge someone who wasn't even fucking dead! Maybe you didn't care about anyone anymore, but I did!”

He knew it was stupid, that Flint had never promised to put people before his war. But Flint had also led him to believe that he mattered, and he'd trusted him. He'd trusted Flint far, far more than he'd ever trusted anyone. Silver couldn't even describe the grief and anger that wrenched at his insides every time he thought of Flint choosing the war over him and Madi.

Tears were blurring his vision now but he couldn't stop. “I won't apologise for saving myself from a situation that was fucking killing me! I won't apologise for saving you! I won't apologise for lov–” Silver went mute before the next syllable tumbled out, horrified at himself.

Flint stood there, mouth hanging open. Those soft eyes Silver had yearned for were watching him again, but they brought Silver no comfort. He'd given himself away, and now Flint had seen something Silver had sworn never to show him, to leave buried on Skeleton Island, to abandon as Flint crossed the plantation's gate. Giving up memories. Funny how it used to be so easy for Silver, but wherever Flint was concerned it was nigh impossible.

Before Flint had time to say something, Silver swung around and started back on the path towards Padstow. Flint called after him, his voice half-swallowed in whistling winds; Silver ignored him and pressed on down the hill. He'd said too much. He'd made enough of a fool of himself. If he hurried perhaps he could get himself onto a boat for Bristol.

Silver's crutch snagged in some sort of bush and twisted away from him. He heard Flint curse just as he whirled about, unbalanced by his own momentum. The cliff gaped beneath him and the rocks below were fucking sharp, Silver noted with rising horror as he lost his footing.

Just as he thought he was going to be getting better acquainted with the cliff face, large hands grabbed Silver's arm and shoulder. The world came to an abrupt halt. Flint pulled him away from the brink, drawing him towards him.

And suddenly Silver's face was buried against Flint's shoulder, and Flint's arms were wrapped around him, and Silver felt himself break. His free hand fisted into Flint's coat, hot tears springing into his eyes, quickly absorbed by the thick fabric. He clung to Flint, and even the hiss of the wind couldn't cover the ragged sound of their breath, or the thundering of their hearts.

“It's all right,” Flint murmured into Silver's ear, sending a shiver to Silver's core. “You're all right.”

“I thought I could do it, but I couldn't,” Silver said, swallowing down a sob. “The war. I meant to follow you, and see you through it, but in the end… it was destroying you, it was going to take her, it was driving me insane…”

He pressed his face further into Flint's coat, fiercely fighting back more tears. “It cost me, you know? What I did cost me everything I had, but I couldn't stand the thought of letting either of you die and I didn't know what else to do.”

“I know,” Flint said with a sigh, relaxing against Silver, as though he were letting go of something terribly heavy. “You needed the war gone to have a chance at being happy with her. I understand.”

Although they were meant to comfort, Flint's words tore at Silver's heart a little more. Flint didn't understand, did he? Despite what Silver had practically screamed at him, he was still stubbornly bent on ignoring it. Perhaps it was for the best; the idea of being confronted about his feelings for Flint filled Silver with terror.

He shifted, trying to find his balance again but unable to pull his crutch free from the tangle of roots and branches it had got caught in. The bush that had snared him was prickly, with bright yellow flowers that had no business blooming in the midst of autumn. Silver couldn't help but think that Flint had willed it to happen, willed the hills to nearly kill Silver, so as to engineer this moment of perfect stillness, a moment that should have made him happy but that somehow just stung like salt on a wound.

“I don't need you to take pity on me just because I nearly fell off a cliff, you know,” Silver said. He'd wanted to snap, but his voice was too shaky for it to sound truly defiant.

“Oh, so you don't want me to untangle your crutch for you then?” Flint returned, his tone much warmer than Silver expected it to be.

“Don't do me any favours,” Silver grumbled. The fact his face was still half-buried in Flint's shoulder, in Flint's heat, in Flint's scent, probably wasn't lending much credibility to his words.

Flint gave an exasperated grunt and grabbed the crutch by the middle, then tugged hard and uprooted it from where it had been snared.

“There. You can keep running now, if you're so inclined.”

Silver looked up into Flint's face, hoping that by now the evidence of his tears would had been thoroughly wiped away. From the gentleness Silver saw in Flint's usually stony features, he wagered that maybe he still looked a little more pathetic than he cared to.

Flint's free hand came up to rest on Silver's shoulder, so delicately that Silver could barely believe this was Flint. Angry, stubborn, forceful Flint. But then again, it seemed that there were things that he had never known about him at all and only now was the truth of them slowly tearing through the veil of denial.

“Or perhaps you could stay,” Flint continued, “and we could talk about all this.”

It took all of Silver's strength to stop himself from running.

* * *

Neither of them had spoken yet.

A sudden rain shower had caught them as they'd been making their way back, leaving them sodden and shivering once they got back home. Quite some time had been spent wringing out clothes, muttering against the weather and kindling the fire. Flint had settled by the hearth, dressed only in his shirt and uncomfortably damp breeches.

Silver came to sit beside Flint on the bench, gingerly lowering himself so as not to lose his balance. Flint watched out of the corner of his eye, his skin covering in goosebumps that had nothing to do with the chill air. For a while they sat in silence, watching the flames.

His heart was going to burst, Flint was sure of it. Ever since their conversation in the hills it twisted and ached and knotted, torn between the instinct to keep every secret to himself and the longing to bare all. Silver had been honest when he'd poured his heart out. At last Flint had seen a man that he recognised, and understood, and trusted.

Which meant it was his turn to be honest, now, and that thought filled him with dread. But it was time.

“I fell in love with you,” Flint said simply, his eyes on the crackling fire. Beside him he felt Silver tense, heard his shaky intake of breath. Flint half-turned and their eyes met. “I fell in love with you when we were fighting the war for Nassau, though I didn't want to admit it to myself, nor act upon it.”

Silver averted his gaze and hunched up in his seat. His mouth worked wordlessly, his face twisting into expressions that Flint wasn't sure how to decipher.

“It didn't matter whether it was mutual. We were friends, it was enough. Though perhaps I was more upset than I expected to be when I found out about your relationship with Madi.”

Silver seemed to be frozen beside Flint now, his eyes cast to the ground and his expression blank. Flint's stomach felt as though it was filled with snakes. Christ, that wasn't the reaction he'd hoped for. Still he forged on, staring into the fire so that he didn't have to see Silver's face.

“If I clung so hard to this admittedly dangerous enterprise of ours, it was partly because we shared it. I thought… I thought that together we could do great things, and it felt good to have you fighting by my side. I now realise that I never stopped to ask whether you really wanted all of that.”

Flint paused again. He could barely even hear Silver breathe. He'd made a mistake, clearly. Misunderstood Silver once again. Still, now he'd started, he was going to say his bit until the end.

“What you saw when you sent me to the plantation… it was heartbreak. I was losing you. And even in the joy of finding Thomas, it was still there. I'd lost you, and I didn't know how to grieve that loss.”

And still now he felt it keenly, even as he sat right beside Silver. What had become of the bond they'd shared? Flint had fought to mend it even as it broke down, torn between Silver and his indomitable will to wage war on the world. Then he'd spent years convincing himself that Silver had been all too happy to be rid of him, as if somehow painting him a villain would make him feel better. It didn't help. Whatever he told himself, he was still wrecked by the loss.

“Did Thomas know that?” Silver asked, his voice hushed.

Flint's mouth twitched. “I wouldn't admit it. I couldn't talk much about you, but he must have guessed. He kept trying to find out more about who you were and our relationship, and that led to endless arguments.”

“So despite bringing you together, I kept you apart. Is that what you're saying?”

“It's not your fault. I did my best to hide what I was feeling, from you, from him, even from myself.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Flint smiled a little. “Why would being in love with you terrify me? Considering how I've destroyed all those I've loved so far, and the fact that you were with Madi, and the fact that it could have ruined our partnership in the war… if you'd been in my shoes, would you have told me?”

Silver gave a snort. “No, I don't suppose I would have.”

“I hope you can believe me when I say that whatever I did while we were trying to defeat Rogers, you were on my mind. And also that Madi's well-being was always on my mind. Neither of you was ever a pawn. You were…” Flint couldn't finish. They were his friends. They were the only future he could see for himself, in the very rare times when he believed he might have a future.

They sat a while, motionless, silent. Flint's ears were filled with the thudding of his own heart; a sick feeling pooled into his stomach as he waited for Silver to say something. Nothing came.

After a few minutes that felt like hours, Flint got off the bench and moved to close the shutters, keenly aware of how easily townspeople could look in on them and see him in this new misery. He stood a long time staring at the dark wood closing his dwelling off from the rest of the world, with his back to Silver.

He heard Silver shift and fumble for his crutch. Flint didn't move; if Silver was making an exit, he didn't want to watch. The door was to Flint's right, and he found himself counting Silver's steps. One, two, three, he was halfway to the door. Three more steps, and he'd be gone. Three more steps, and– fingers brushed against Flint's back. The rush of relief nearly made his knees give way.

“I wouldn't have believed you if you'd told me then,” Silver said softly. “I'd have thought it was a trick. That you were telling me something I wanted to hear to get your own way. To get me to keep on fighting by your side.”

It took a moment until the full meaning of Silver's words settled in Flint's mind. _S_ _omething I wanted to hear._ The phrase rang through Flint like a bell, deafening, startling. He half-turned to look into Silver's face and found that Silver looked small and frail beside him. When their eyes met, Silver gave a tense little smile.

“And now, do you believe me?” Flint asked softly, turning to he face Silver completely. An ache was spreading from his heart to his limbs, a heavy yearning both painful and thrilling.

“I'm not sure,” Silver said. When Flint's brow knotted, Silver's face broke into one of his flustered, strained grins. “Don't– it's not personal. I don't know why Madi still tolerates me, though I think she doesn't know that either. What I mean to say is… you know me. I do what I have to do to survive. I worm my way into people's heads to get what I want. You said it yourself I used every weapon I had against you until you were defeated. No wonder you knew better than to tell me about your feelings, God knows what I would have done with that if you'd made yourself so vulnerable to me.”

As he listened to Silver's babble, Flint was filled with a strange sort of serenity. Silver was frightened, but he wanted this. Flint reached out to push a stray curl behind Silver's ear, then let his palm cup his cheek.

Silver drew a shaky breath; as the grin faded from his face, the sadness in his eyes became all the more obvious. “What on earth did you see in me?”

“I saw you.” Flint moved closer, butterflies fluttering in his belly as his forehead touched Silver's. “The thief, the manipulator, the storyteller, the charmer. And I saw beyond that.”

“God,” Silver choked out. His lips were inches from Flint's, his breath hot on Flint's mouth.

“Beyond that there are weaknesses. Things you try so hard to hide and ignore because you know how easily they can undo a man. Compassion. Loyalty. Loneliness.” And how acutely Flint saw them in Silver now that he'd dropped his mask, now that he'd finally revealed himself to Flint, now that Flint was finally seeing clearly.

Silver let out a heart-rending sound between a sob and a whine. Flint pulled him closer and their bodies seemed to melt together, Silver's free arm wrapping around Flint's back, Flint's hand cupping the back of Silver's head, and their hips nestling together.

“You have no right to make me feel this way,” Silver murmured against Flint's lips, before kissing them lightly. “You shouldn't have this much power over me.”

And then Silver's mouth claimed Flint's with a hunger that took Flint by surprise. The craving Flint had so long kept in check burst to the surface like a flame. His lips sought after Silver's frenziedly, devouring them as Silver devoured him, all tongue and teeth and passion.

Silver's hand found its way beneath Flint's shirt and trailed up his back, his fingers setting Flint's skin on fire in their wake. Flint clutched at Silver's clothes, pulling him closer. He was fighting for breath, but he couldn't tear his mouth away from Silver's.

“Bench,” Silver ground out, barely moving his lips away from Flint's as he spoke.

Only then did Flint realise how badly Silver's good leg was shaking, how his own knees wobbled under the force of the lust surging inside of him. He manoeuvred them to the bench, Silver tugging hard at Flint's shirt as they went. He all but ripped it off his back once he managed to sit down.

Flint slid his hands under Silver's shirt to pull it off before they were swept up into another searing kiss. He joined Silver on the bench, sitting astride it and pulling him close. A deep guttural sound echoed though Flint's chest as their bodies met skin to skin, as his hands explored Silver's strong back, his waist, the top of his hips.

Silver shifted with a moan, pulling himself flush against Flint's groin as he sucked at his lips. The sensation of Silver's hard length against his own drew a high, needy whine from Flint, and he slid a leg over Silver's thigh, locking them together as they ground against each other.

There was nothing now in Flint's mind but want. His hands grabbed at Silver's flesh, combed through his hair, guided his perfect arse in a chaotic, wanton rhythm. He wanted Silver's breath down his throat. He wanted to feel him inside, he wanted to be inside of him. He wanted this to go on forever.

Silver drew Flint down over him, shifting so that Flint lay between his thighs. Silver's hands ran avidly over Flint's back, the scrape of his nails making Flint buck into him wildly. They settled on Flint's arse, drawing out a moan that Flint forced himself to stifle. There were neighbours, he remembered dimly.

But Silver was relentless, his hands sliding between them, unbuttoning breeches surprisingly fast considering that Flint could barely keep from rutting into him. They both gasped aloud when Silver freed Flint's cock, and Flint shuddered with pure joy when he felt the heat of Silver's shaft against his.

One of Silver's hands closed over both of them, squeezing them tight together, whilst the other, still grasping Flint's arse, encouraged Flint to move against him. The sensation, a pull of skin on skin, was almost too much. Flint moved slowly, breath coming in gasps and sobs at every new sensation. Silver's fingers shifted closer to the tips, his thumb rubbing the head of Flint's cock with every stroke. It was all Flint could do not to cry out loud.

Flint slid his hand between them, covering Silver's, squeezing them tighter together. Silver's leg wrapped around his hips, his foot pressing into Flint's buttocks, setting the pace. Flint found Silver's mouth again, drowned their moans and cries in deep kisses, all the while aware of the exquisite tension building in his balls, of the way Silver's shaft stiffened as it slid back and forth against his, faster and faster, building up to a frenzy.

He didn't manage to stifle Silver's groan when he spilled between Flint's fingers. It didn't matter. There was nothing in Flint's mind except the fact that he had Silver's cock in his hand, that he'd just made him come, and that the wetness of his seed felt incredibly good. Silver's grip tightened around him, his tongue plunged lewdly into Flint's mouth, and pleasure ripped through Flint, blinding him, deafening him. He was sure cannons didn't go off so loudly, nor so intensely.

Gasping hoarsely, Flint lay his head in the crook of Silver's shoulder, still shuddering with aftershocks. Silver's breath was shallow, his skin warm and flushed and damp, his fingers stroking Flint's shoulders and back. Flint allowed himself to revel in it for a while and think of nothing at all.

It lasted all of a few minutes until grim reality nudged him out of his blissful state. Flint shifted, looking into Silver's face. His eyes were wide and dark, his face a strange mixture of pensive and euphoric.

“John?”

Silver's eyes focused on Flint, a smile pulling at his lips. “Mm?”

“What about Madi?” As he said the words, Flint's heart grew heavy, joy draining out of him all at once.

Silver gave a small groan. “Do we really have to talk about Madi now?”

“She's your wife. I think we do.”

“Madi and I are married in name,” Silver said with a sigh. “It's an arrangement. Probably not the happiest one, but the only one we could think of to make things safer for her here.”

Flint considered this for a while. “Are you saying that your relationship is entirely platonic, then?”

“Well…” Silver huffed against Flint's shoulder. It was answer enough.

“Then we still need to talk about this.”

“Look, Madi would be a fool if she sent me to find you and didn't know this might happen. She must have known this might happen at any time, back in Nassau.”

For a moment, Flint could only stare at him. “What?”

“I don't know if you noticed, but I was fucking devoted to you and your stupid war, back then, when nobody else was all that keen. I told her so much. In fact, I went on endlessly about you and your mysteries. Madi's clever. I'm pretty sure she figured out my interest in you.”

It took Flint a little while to process this new piece of information. How blind had he been in Nassau? _Devoted_ to him? Christ!

“Although apparently _you_ were oblivious to it.” Silver's tone was amused, and his voice muffled as he pressed a kiss into the crook of Flint's neck, making him shiver.

“Nevertheless,” Flint forced himself to say, before Silver's lips made him lose all reason, “she didn't explicitly agree to this.”

Silver pulled away with a sigh. “No, she didn't.” He paused, thoughtful. “D'you really think that when she practically pushed me out of the front door telling me to go and find you, it's just because I'm that annoying?”

“You _are_ that annoying,” Flint muttered fondly.

Silver's face lit up with a smile, and all Flint wanted was to kiss him some more. But it wasn't right.

“You need to talk to her,” Flint told him, though the idea of Silver leaving stabbed at him like daggers. “Before this goes any further.”

Silver peered into his face, eyes wide. “Don't you think it's a bit late for that? After what you've just told me? And what we've just done?”

Flint was brought back to the moments after Thomas had first taken him to bed, to the sudden onslaught of nagging doubts that had plagued him then. Wasn't this dangerous? Could this destroy them if it was discovered? And what about Miranda?

He and Miranda hadn't exactly fallen in love. There had been fascination, and deep fondness, and raging lust between them, but her heart belonged to Thomas. He'd never for a second imagined coming between them. He had, though, in more ways than one.

And now here he was, in the same fucking situation, but this time he knew even less about what he was stepping into.

“Talk to me,” Silver said in a small voice. Flint could hear the sharp increase in his heartbeat against his ear. “You're scaring me.”

Flint didn't know what to say, so he pressed a gentle kiss to Silver's forehead and pushed himself up until he was sitting on the bench again. Silver took at deep, shaky breath, gazing up a him.

“It needs to be sorted, that's all,” Flint finally said, his voice thick around a knot in his throat.

Silver sat up too, his knee nudging Flint's. “All right. Then we'll go to Bristol tomorrow and sort it.”

“Now wait–”

“Oh, you're coming to Bristol with me,” Silver said, finding Flint's hand and lacing their fingers together. “I'm not letting you out of my sight anymore, and you and Madi have things to say to each other. Besides, would you even take my word for it, if I come back here, assuring you she agreed?”

Flint looked up at Silver, unable to say that he would, although he wanted to.

“Thought not.” Silver gave a smile and a shrug. “You don't trust me enough for that. Not yet.”

“And what will you tell her?”

“That I want to be with you. And with her if she'll ever have me again.” Silver's hand closed over Flint's, and Flint had to blink back tears stinging in his eyes. “I know it's selfish, and I don't deserve even one of you, but that's what I want and I'm tired of denying myself. Are you all right with that?”

Flint nodded, squeezing Silver's hand in his, unable to look him in the eye.

“And if she's not all right with it, and she finally decides to leave me, then so be it.”

From the tightness of Silver's voice, Flint was rather sure that Silver wouldn't be all right with it at all, but he said nothing.

“James?”

Flint felt as though his heart was going to burst out of his chest when Silver said his name. He looked up at him, into those deep blue eyes that made his heart want to burst.

“What do _you_ want?”

It was the wrong question at the wrong moment. Something shattered within Flint and hot tears ran uncontrollably down his face. What he wanted? Everything. Miranda, and Thomas, and Silver. He wanted the crippling guilt to stop plaguing him, he wanted to be someone else, someone who wasn't a monster. Someone who might deserve even one of them.

Silver's arms wrapped around him tightly again, his voice murmuring soothing sounds, fingers tangling in Flint's hair. As Flint sobbed, he let Silver kiss him gently, along the trail of his tears, then on his temples, on his lips. When Flint started kissing Silver back, he realised that some of the tears were Silver's.

“It'll be all right,” Silver whispered hoarsely in his ear. “It'll sort itself out, I promise.”

As Flint's breathing settled and his heart gradually stopped throbbing, he let himself be filled by the warmth of Silver's embrace. Perhaps it wouldn't last. Perhaps this was just another mess in his life waiting to happen. But god, he wanted it. He squeezed Silver a little tighter.

“Are you hungry?” Silver asked.

“Starving, actually,” Flint answered, surprised. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been this hungry.

“Lucky there's still stew left, then.” Silver pressed a kiss to Flint's temple. “We'll need all our strength before we leave for Bristol tomorrow, won't we?”

Flint didn't feel at all ready for that. But Silver, it seemed, was bent on making it happen. And what Silver wanted, Silver got.

That night they lay entwined in Flint's bed, lust set aside for the time being. They dozed without truly sleeping, holding each other close. Flint noted each breath, each soft kiss, each touch of Silver's fingers against his, as if it might be the last.


	5. Chapter 5

Madi was in the kitchen of the Spyglass Inn trussing a roast after a fruitful morning at the market. She'd happened upon two families of freed slaves, wives and children of sailors, who'd been in Bristol for several years. The women spoke Yoruba, which Madi had learned from her mother; it had made communicating with them that much easier, and by the end of the conversation they had seemed quite keen to help Madi. If Madi was going to bring any more of her people here, establishing a network was essential.

When everything had gone wrong in Nassau, Madi had decided to leave, against her mother's wishes. The pact with England wouldn't hold, that Madi knew in her bones. It may take months or years, but the Maroons would be captured again as slaves – or worse. This was why she'd allowed John to bring her so far from home, to find somewhere that could serve as a base to shelter Maroons fleeing the West Indies.

That was as far as they'd got; the rest of the plan depended on many factors, including the wishes of those who were brought over. Some might continue living in England or other parts of Europe, if the natives proved tolerant enough. She also knew a number of Maroons wanted to return to the countries in Africa where they had been born, and might still have family.

In the past few months, John had worked hard on planning exactly how they could move the Maroons across the Atlantic. He had a ship, and he had men, and now they had the inn. It wouldn't be long until they were ready to ferry the first group of people out of Maroon Island – if John ever returned.

Madi still wondered what madness had possessed her to tell him to go and find Flint. He hadn't even been gone five days and already she felt loneliness seep in. She knew it wouldn't have been the same, had she still been in the West Indies, surrounded by friends and family. But here, in Bristol, worries gnawed at her. She couldn't help but wonder what would become of her if he didn't return and she was to fend for herself in England, where most people took her for some noble lady's slave girl.

She wasn't entirely alone, of course. A few of John's crew regularly came into the inn to make sure all was well. She didn't much like any of them. They were all in it for treasure alone, and the moment John stopped being profitable, they would most likely desert him – or worse. Thankfully John knew this, and was quite capable of recognising his crew's needs before they thought of turning on him. But if he didn't come back, they would soon leave with John's ship.

Overall, John had made himself very useful. He brought back riches, and freed every slave he could lay his hands on, and devoted himself to helping her with any projects he deemed feasible. But he also refused to apologise for what he had done.

At times she despised him and mistrusted all his grand gestures. At times she couldn't resist his charm, drawn back to him like the tide to the moon. And at times fondness took over, when he was quiet and pensive, looking out at the sea. She knew who was on his mind, then.

Would he return, if he found Flint? The question was roaring louder and louder in her head, squeezing at her chest and stealing her breath.

A loud knock at the inn's door startled Madi. It was only mid-morning, too early for the inn to be open for lunch. But the knock came again, louder. Probably a drunk desperate for his gin. She cursed John for having chosen a place that served liquor rather than coffee.

“We're closed!” she called out from behind the door, her tone harsh and stern. “Come back in a couple hours.”

“It's me, Madi.”

She stood still, blinking. Had he guessed that she missed him, by some witchery that only he knew? She frowned. There was a more likely explanation, she thought grimly. The coward.

“What are you doing back?” She pulled back the large bolt at the bottom of the door, then the stiff one at the top that always gave her trouble. “Don't tell me you lost your nerve, or I swear to god–”

The door opened on a flood of sun, and a sight she hadn't expected. John stood there, a nervous smile on his face. Beside him, Flint stood squinting in the light, copper hair tied up in a long ponytail. It was practically a painting. It was surreal.

“I found him a bit faster than I expected,” John said lightly. “He was in Padstow.”

Madi realised that she'd been focusing on Flint, on the hollowness of his cheeks and the redness of his eyes and the tight set of his jaw. She wasn't even sure she'd quite caught what John had told her, too busy taking in what she was seeing before her.

She shook herself. “Well, come in.”

John pressed a hand to Flint's shoulder. Flint glanced at him tensely before walking into the pub; Madi stepped back from the door to let them in, strange butterflies shivering in her stomach as both of them passed her. When John closed the door behind them, they all found themselves standing awkwardly in the gloomy public room.

For a while, there was silence.

“See? Told you I didn't kill him,” John said, chuckling awkwardly.

“I never doubted _that_ ,” she shot back, glaring at him. “The truth is unpleasant enough.”

John opened his mouth to argue, and had the good sense to close it again. This would only get ugly, and she didn't want Flint to witness that. He looked lost enough as it was, standing there rigidly, not knowing what to do with his hands. Madi wanted to reassure him, to welcome him, but apparently they were all tongue-tied.

“I'm glad to see you,” Madi managed at last.

“And I you,” he answered, though his face remained grave.

Something was going on, that much Madi could tell, and apparently neither of them was willing to explain themselves yet. What _had_ John told Flint to make him come to Bristol?

“So I take it you're staying with us?” she asked.

“I...” Flint's eyes flicked to John, who glanced back at him with a smile. A tender smile, one that Madi knew rather well. “I don't have any precise plans yet.”

“Do we have a room for him?” John asked.

And then it finally hit her. The small glances between them, the tension, the embarrassed silence. Something new was going on between them, something that had been on the verge of happening, all those years ago.

“We don't have any guests at the moment.” She raised her eyebrow at John. “The one opposite ours?”

John's eyes went wide and bright, then a smile spread slowly across his face. “Yes, that'll do nicely.”

All through this conversation, Flint hadn't moved a muscle, fidgeting with the bag he carried, not making eye contact with anyone. He looked like someone who was wishing the ground would swallow him up.

Madi wasn't sure how this was supposed to work, but right now it certainly wasn't working well with the three of them in that room.

“I have to see to the food. Will you bring him upstairs?”

“Of course,” John said, still smiling. He turned to Flint and gestured him to the rooms. Flint glanced back at Madi; their eyes met briefly. She gave him a small smile before he disappeared upstairs. He looked graver than ever.

Everything felt a little surreal for a while, as though the world had tilted just a little. Flint was back. Madi checked the fire and slipped the roast into the waiting oven. John had brought Flint back into their lives. After turning the thought in her head a few times, Madi couldn't help but think this was a good thing.

She hadn't trusted Flint at first. The first few times John had told her about him, he had painted such a dark picture of Flint that Madi couldn't help but be worried. How could such a man lead them all to victory? Seeing Flint fighting had done nothing to reassure her; he was ruthless and violent. She could see that he would be a useful weapon, but there hadn't been anything about him that she could like.

And then there was the fact that John spent so much time speaking about Flint, obsessing over him, puzzling him out, worrying about his relationship with him. This hadn't changed when John had become her lover, to her annoyance. And then there were the rumours amongst pirates: John Silver and Captain Flint were such close partners that they shared their thoughts – and more, according to some. Flint was _everywhere_ in John's life; making a space for herself had been a battle.

John had always denied that he and Flint were involved in some sort of affair, and deflected her attempts to understand exactly what bond they shared. In the end she gave up trying to figure out their relationship. Whatever it was, it was deep and powerful, and Madi had come to accept that, even though she doubted it was healthy.

It was strange how a few days – and the loss of John – had so radically transformed her feelings towards Flint. If nothing else, it had become clear that Flint _did_ care about John as much as John did for him. But what had warmed Madi to him was the way he had sought a connection with her, and supported her, and treated her as an equal. From then on, she sometimes _also_ felt as though she and Flint could share their thoughts without a word. What might have happened, she wondered, if they'd had any time to explore all the bonds, new and old, between the three of them?

The sound of John's crutch echoing down the stairs and through the public room drew her from her thoughts.

“Is he settling in?” she asked without even turning to look at him as he pushed open the kitchen door.

“Something like that.” John pulled up a chair at the long wooden table and sat down. She came to join him.

“He looks thin,” she remarked.

John nodded. “He's not in the best of shape, too much liquor, not enough food. It's partly why I asked him to come. Somehow Flint can live in the middle of a bustling town and manage to be completely isolated.”

“So he and Thomas..?”

“Split up.”

“Perhaps if they hadn't been in that plantation–”

“It wasn't the plantation. It was me.”

It seemed, then, that John had the same pull on Flint as he did on her. How strange it was that neither she nor Flint, despite what John had done to them, could entirely give him up.

“He couldn't forget you,” she said slowly. “Like you couldn't forget him.”

“Yes.” John's smile was rueful, and somewhat melancholic.

Madi nodded. “John, please tell me that you and he have finally been honest with each other.”

“About what?”

“About what you have both been dancing around since the day I met you, and likely months before that.”

“You notice everything, don't you?” John's smile was soft and fond. Madi couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him this way. Not playing at being charming, but actually warm and kind.

She gave a little snort. “Believe me, I was not the only one.”

“Wait, what–”

“Look. I always knew there was something between him and you. There were times when I wished to have you for myself, but that did not seem to be an option. Ever since I have known you, he has been part of everything you said and did.”

John gave a sigh. “Fair enough. And to answer your question, yes… those things left unsaid have, mostly, been said. And, um, done.”

“But you came back here, rather than staying there with him.” She looked at him, a queasy feeling in her stomach. “So… I take it you don't intend to leave me?”

John looked back at her with wide surprised eyes and a shake of his head. “No, of course not. Not if you'll still have me. And him.” He frowned. “Wait. I didn't mean to suggest–”

She laughed. It escaped her, uncontrollable, and although she clapped a hand over her lips, it was too late. John was beaming at her, all curls and blue eyes. How was it that she could find him almost repulsive one moment and that the next he melted her heart?

“Can he stay with us?” John asked.

“And be your lover?”

“Yes, and be my lover.”

“Has he forgiven you?”

“I don't know. We only had three days together, and he was angry during the first two. But I think… maybe he's closer to it than you are.” John's smile was nearly a grimace. “He knows a few things about having been a horrible person, after all.”

She eyed him coolly, pondering his words. At least he hadn't retorted that there was nothing to forgive. How a few days could change a man.

“You can see to this roast, John Silver,” she said, standing up. “And I will go and talk to him.”

“You haven't answered my question,” John called after her as she left the room.

“I know,” she replied, then the door closed behind her.

She found Flint standing by the window in his room. He whipped around the moment she opened the door, jumpy, as if he were caught doing something wrong. While Madi believed that John could stew a little longer, she didn't feel inclined to be cruel with Flint.

“John told me that your relationship has evolved,” she said as she came closer, standing beside him by the window. “I am surprised it only took you three days, considering your inability to admit to your feelings to each other in Nassau.”

Flint's defensive stance relaxed a little. “So you did know.”

“Yes. I didn't like your hold on him at first, and hoped that someday he might separate from you.” She gave a small smile. “I didn't believe you truly cared about him until that moment on the beach.”

“Well, I certainly can't blame you.”

“I was just starting to appreciate you when you were taken away to that place.” She shook her head. “It wasn't right.”

“No.” Flint sighed. “No, it wasn't. But at that point, after everything that happened, after all the emotional turmoil of those last days in Nassau, I don't think either of us were exactly in our right minds.” He frowned slightly. “I'm not sure I'd been in my right mind in years.”

“I was, though.” There was the knot, again, stuck in Madi's throat. At little ball of anger and frustration and hurt. “We could have changed the world for the better.”

“We could have.” Flint sighed. He sounded exhausted. “I desperately wanted to. But– do you know what I don't miss? Killing people. Having blood on my hands. You might have come to hate it too, once you'd got into the thick of it.”

“I might have, but we'll never know. He betrayed me before I could find out.”

“And yet here you are. Married.”

“He's a difficult man to leave.” She smiled when Flint chuckled at her words. “He spent the last few years trying to win me back, helping me find safer alternatives to a war.” None of the alternatives were good enough. They had to do, but they weren't good enough. “Instead of leaving him, I made him unhappy. And by doing so, I made myself unhappy.”

Flint made a face. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“But today I saw him smile. I saw his face lit up because he had found you, and it was as though the man I'd first loved was back. And that… that made me feel happy too. Does that make any sense to you? That I like him best when he is in harmony with you?”

“Well, you did fall in love with him when he and I were very close. He adapts, changes himself. Or rather… I think the people that surround him allow him to experience different parts of himself, some good, some bad.”

“And you brought out both, and probably more.”

Flint eyed her grimly. “I suppose so.”

“I sent him to find you because I couldn't stand to see him pining for you any longer. Was it the right thing to do?”

A smile pulled at Flint's lips. She'd never seen such a fragile expression on his face. It filled her chest with warmth, and with sadness.

“It was,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

She reached out and touched his arm, uncertain at first, especially when Flint's eyes flicked to her hand as though she were about to attack him. She'd never done this and it felt like a transgression, but at the same time she knew it was right. When Flint's eyes locked with hers, she curled her fingers into the fabric of his coat and pulled him into her arms, pressing her face to his shoulder. Flint didn't react at first, but when she squeezed him tighter she felt his hands on her back, feather-light. She was sure that even Atlas, if he'd been relieved of his burden, wouldn't have sighed as deeply as Flint did then. The sound filled her belly with a warm glow.

“You can stay here, and be with him, for as long as you like,” she said as she released him.

“And you're all right with this? With… my relationship with him?”

“I cannot claim to be the sole owner of his heart; I have always had to share him with you. Right now, I do not know how to be happy with him, or even how to _be_ with him. Perhaps… perhaps seeing him happy is what I need to learn to love him again.”

At the solemn look on his face, she smiled. “Besides, I think I might come to enjoy your company.”

For all answer Flint made a small scoffing sound, but his smile was fond. He too had changed, and it seemed to be John's handiwork. Madi could only consider that a good sign.

They stood side by side in silence for a while, watching the street below. The world didn't seem quite as tilted anymore. In fact, Madi wondered if she hadn't been living in a tilted world for the last few years, and it was just now starting to be righted.

* * *

The day seemed endless.

Silver spent most of it at the bar, as he usually did. Madi didn't enjoy that sort of work at all, nor did she enjoy serving people's food, but it was necessary to keep their operation going. Silver had serious plans to hire staff if business did well.

Actually, it seemed they already had staff in the person of Flint, who decided to spend the evening helping in the kitchens. Madi came and went from the kitchen to the public room and more than once Silver heard her chuckle just as the kitchen door closed behind her. It was nice to hear her laugh, although Silver was close to being jealous. She didn't laugh like that for _him_.

“No, you've done enough for one day,” Silver heard Madi say to Flint when it was going on nine and they stopped serving food. “Go up to your room and get some rest. When was the last time you got any sleep?”

It was unfair, Silver thought, how easily Flint cooperated with Madi. It was also unfair that Flint shot him a look and a smile that went right to Silver's groin, when he still had at least a couple hours' work to do before he could join him.

“You two seem to be getting along,” Silver remarked casually as Madi joined him behind the bar.

“We have quite a few things in common,” she replied, her face unreadable.

The comment, an echo of something Flint had said back in Padstow, made the hair at the back of Silver's neck prickle with sudden anxiety.

“Madi, please don't tell me the two of you are going to start… you know…”

She raised her eyebrows at him, her dark eyes fixing on his. “No, I do not know.”

Silver lowered his voice to a hiss. “Some kind of revolution.”

She blinked, then softly snorted with laughter before going to serve a customer. This wasn't reassuring at all.

The inn slowly emptied as the night drew on, until Silver drove out the last few stragglers, laughing and joking with them but also firmly guiding them towards the exit. He drew a deep breath as he locked up, then hobbled to the tables to clear them.

“Isn't there somewhere else you ought to be?” Madi asked, cocking her head.

“I– well, I thought you– uh...” was about all Silver managed to say.

“Go. You'll take ages picking all this up, anyway. You can do the dishes tomorrow morning instead.”

“Right…” He hesitated, uncertain but also bursting with anticipation. “All right.”

Madi just tutted at him with a smile and went about cleaning up the tables. Silver was thankful that Madi was somehow managing not to make the whole situation more awkward than it was. God knew he felt awkward enough, and Flint had been a ball of nerves when they'd arrived.

He didn't deserve to be this lucky, but once again life proved that people never got what they deserved.

When he knocked at Flint's door, he got a rumbled answer which Silver took as permission enough to come in. He found Flint in bed, blinking with sleepy eyes and moving a book onto a side-table. The candle was burning low, glinting off Flint's unbound hair. It was a brilliant shade of copper against the white bedlinen.

“What time is it?” Flint asked muzzily.

“Nearing midnight,” Silver said. “Should I let you sleep, or…”

Flint eyed him meaningfully and pushed back the bedclothes. Silver came closer, heart suddenly galloping with anticipation. Undressing could wait. Kissing Flint couldn't. Silver's fingers slid through Flint's silky locks and he took his time kissing, sucking, nipping, tasting Flint, his kisses lazy and hungry in turn. The soft sounds in Flint's throat sent a thrill down his spine, making even the toes he no longer had curl with pleasure.

Silver drew back reluctantly when his neck started to ache, and his shoulder protested at the way his crutch was angled. Flint shifted in bed, drawing himself up so that he could reach Silver's clothes and help remove them.

“You have no idea how much I've wanted this,” Silver breathed into Flint's ear, all the while ridding himself of his coat. “And for how fucking long.”

“Not just since yesterday then?” Flint murmured, his lips finding their way all along Silver's throat. Silver hissed when teeth scraped along his Adam's apple, followed by Flint's tongue.

“God, no.” He let Flint pull him closer, leaning his crutch against the wall. His fingers dug into Flint's shoulders as he shivered under Flint's mouth and beard trailing over his skin. “I've lost count of how many times I wished we were fucking when we were back in Nassau.”

This drew a grunt from Flint. “Me too, believe me. In the warship...”

Silver gasped at the mention, and also because Flint was licking at one of his nipples in long swipes. “The fucking warship. Lots of missed occasions there.”

This earned him a chuckle from Flint, warm and happy and a little lewd. It made Silver's belly feel like it was filled with molten gold.

Impatient, Silver leaned against the wall for balance and got rid of the rest of his clothes, scattering them randomly across the floor. It was only once he'd rid himself of all his clothing that he realised Flint was watching intently.

“You're so beautiful,” Flint breathed.

Silver tried to refrain from squirming self-consciously. Nobody actually said that out loud, did they? Certainly not to a man with one leg. Did Flint actually _mean_ it? He pushed the thoughts behind a grin and crawled into bed beside Flint, roughly pulling at his shirt until Flint threw it off.

He slid his hands along Flint's chest, up to cup his cheeks and kiss him deeply, before letting them roam down again. Flint's skin was impossibly hot, heat radiating off him. Hair red as hellfire and a fire burning within. That sounded about right for Flint, Silver thought and he let his hands move lower.

Flint's cock was half-hard and a beautiful sight, plump and lazy, resting against his thigh. Silver lightly brushed his fingers along it, then wrapped them around him, drawing soft sounds from Flint as he touched him. This all felt new and wonderful – the delicate veins under nearly transparent skin, the way the tip flushed as Flint grew harder, the way his velvety skin stretched as he grew. Silver wondered if it was possible to fall in love with a cock, because he was pretty sure it was happening to him right then.

“John?”

Silver looked up at Flint. His eyes were shockingly dark, his nostrils flaring with each shallow breath.

“I want you inside of me,” Flint told him, his voice low and thick.

For a split second, Silver thought he was going to come right against Flint's thigh, just from the sound of those words, the low vibration of Flint's voice and the look of pure lust on Flint's face. He took a sharp, trembling breath to calm himself, shifting so that his cock wasn't pressed flush against Flint's skin.

His reaction must gave been obvious, though, because a smug smile curled Flint's lip. He reached out to trace along Silver's cock, humming when a bead of pre-cum dripped out to meet his fingers.

“God, don't say things like that,” Silver growled at him, trying to swallow the whine that was trying to escape him. “Can't very well fuck you if you set me off, can I?”

Flint just laughed, and Silver cut him off with a kiss that was nearly a bite, shivering as Flint moaned down his throat. Silver's hands ran down to Flint's hips as he moved into the space between Flint's parted thighs. Then he hoisted him up, half into his lap, so that he could run his hands along the curve of Flint's arse, over and over, filling his palms with the soft flesh. His fingers slid into the cleft between Flint's buttocks and he enjoyed the hitch in Flint's breath when the tip of his fingers circled his hole.

“You'd better have brought oil,” Silver breathed against Flint's neck. “Cause I'm not going all the way to my room for it.”

“Here,” Flint said, fishing out a small tin of pomade from between the mattress and the bedframe and handing it to Silver.

Flint was anything but unprepared, Silver mused as he generously slicked him up. In fact, Silver found him incredibly eager, kissing Silver wherever his lips would reach as Silver worked two fingers inside of him, writhing and moaning on the bed when Silver pumped them in an out, even keening quietly when Silver touched that sensitive place within. Silver could barely look at him, laid out beneath him in all his freckled glory. He knew full well that the sight of Flint like this may well send him over the edge.

“Now,” came Flint's voice, commanding as ever. “Take me now.”

Hands trembling with nerves and need, Silver smeared grease onto his own cock and unceremoniously pushed into Flint's waiting arse. He found Flint both tight and surprisingly yielding. Silver pressed in further and was rewarded by Flint spreading out beneath him, head tilted back, whining softly.

For a moment he didn't move, and found himself staring into Flint's face. There was wonder in his eyes, and a depth of emotion that Silver couldn't describe with words. Flint drew himself up to kiss him, his lips gentle, his hands moving to cup the nape of Silver's neck. Silver felt as though he were jumping off a cliff, flinging himself into the terrifying unknown. But it was all right, because he was with Flint and he felt safe beneath those burning hands.

Silver began to move, rolling his hips experimentally, rocking against Flint in shallow thrusts. The sounds escaping Flint's throat, rough and needy and shameless, filled Silver's head and spurred him on. He let himself get lost in the soft slap of body against body, in the breath they shared as they kissed, and the mingling of their moans.

It wasn't long before Silver felt pleasure coiling in his groin, squeezing in his balls, pulsing down his cock. Flint was hard against his belly, precum dripping from him with each of Silver's thrusts.

“Yes,” Flint was moaning into his ear. “Yes, John, Christ… don't stop!”

Silver wrapped his fingers around Flint's cock again, moving it in unison with his hips. He couldn't explain the feeling of pure power of having Flint's cock in his hand. He was his. In this moment Flint was entirely his, moaning Silver's name like a prayer, tangling his hands in his hair, gripping a fistful of it nearly painfully. Silver increased the pace, fucking Flint hard and fast, squeezing his cock in his fist.

Flint called out Silver's name when he came, and the way he shuddered all around Silver's cock pulled Silver over the edge with him. He heard himself cry out too, blinded in the white light of his climax. The cry ended in soft sobs as Silver slowed his thrusts, gasping for breath. Flint's fingers were still buried in his hair, stroking his scalp.

They lay in each other's arms, shaking, nearly choking with the intensity of their lovemaking. Silver, though he would never admit it if questioned, had left a damp trail along Flint's broad chest, where tears had somehow decided to escape his eyes. Flint didn't question it; he simply carded through Silver's hair soothingly, until they both fell into a sated doze.

* * *

The house was burning. The harpsichord was on fire, flames glinted off the abandoned china, licking the table, blackening the walls, devouring everything. The smell of burning tea and spices mingled with the smell of ashes. The fire was ensnaring Flint too, a burning ring wrapped around his arms and waist, a flaming snake blistering his skin…

Flint awoke with a jolt, sweat pouring off him. He cast about for his tinderbox, but the room wasn't right, the chest beside his bed was gone, the window was in the wrong place.

“What're you doing?” a voice beside him slurred.

Instantly, Flint remembered where he was and sighed with relief, wiping sweat from his brow. No wonder he was dreaming of fire, he though to himself, he had his own personal furnace in the person of John Silver. Silver was pressed up against Flint, arms wrapped around his middle. A pile of blankets covered them, and the room itself was much too warm. Flint tried to untangle himself from Silver and slide out of bed, but Silver held tight and gave a petulant moan.

“It's bloody hot in here,” Flint whispered. “I need some fresh air.”

Silver gave a heavy sigh and rolled aside, freeing Flint. “It's nice and warm. Don't go making this room freezing cold.”

Navigating the dark room was a bit of a challenge, especially when Flint nearly tripped over some piece of clothing Silver had randomly thrown across the room. He got to the window, cracking the shutters open and letting in the early morning light, before pushing the window open. The autumn air was delightfully crisp on Flint's skin.

“Ugh,” Silver groaned, pulling the sheets over his head.

A grin broke out on Flint's lips as he watched Silver recoil from the sun. It still felt strange, this irrepressible wave of fondness that took over him whenever he so much as looked at Silver. Strange, but not unfamiliar. Anger had smothered those feelings for many years, but that seemed to have melted away, at least for now.

And that, _that_ was strange, to be without rage. Without it, Flint felt naked and fragile; everything was unfamiliar. It wasn't such a bad thing though, now that he was in good company.

“What time is it?” Silver asked blearily.

“Seven or so,” Flint said, sitting beside the bundle of linens covering Silver and idly running a fingertip over what was probably his shoulder. Silver twitched and rolled away.

“I'll have to go downstairs soon,” Silver whined from under the sheets. “There's still last night's washing up to do.”

“Well, I'll come with you and help.”

He drew back the sheets to look at Flint with a frown. “You're our guest, you don't need–”

“If I'm here to stay, you better be sure I'll be pulling my weight.”

“Hmm, about that.”

Silver's eyes suddenly looked rather shifty, but Flint didn't quite take it in because Silver coiled himself around him again, arms going around his waist, stubbly chin resting on Flint's shoulder.

“Did Madi tell you what we're planning on doing here? Transporting the Maroons out of the West Indies?”

“She did.” Flint felt as though a trap were slowly closing in on him.

“Well, you know, I was thinking… I really need someone to help me with that.”

Flint eyed him suspiciously. “Really?”

“See, I'm a known villain. If anyone catches Long John Silver with a ship full of slaves, well, it'll go down badly for all involved. But if, say, an upstanding citizen, perhaps a retired Navy Lieutenant was captaining the ship–”

“You little shit!” Flint burst out, twisting around to glare at him. “I knew you had an ulterior motive!”

Silver grinned back hugely, his bright blue eyes sparkling in the morning light. And, damn him, Flint wanted to laugh rather than shout at him.

“Don't think of it as an ulterior motive,” Silver said with a chuckle. “Think of it as an opportunity to further enjoy the pleasure of my company.”

“I might enjoy the pleasure of throwing you overboard.”

“All right then. Think of it as an opportunity to pay me back for those windowpanes.”

Flint gasped with outrage, and Silver burst out laughing. Flint kissed him hard, then, swallowing Silver's breath until his laughter turned to soft moans. He supposed that those sounds – and Madi's smile – may be reward enough for following Silver into this folly.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to follow [my tumblr](http://medusinestories.tumblr.com) and yell with me about angsty pirates.


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